Almost There, Always Hurt

A cycle of poems «Everything Hurts and I Am Almost Famous»

I count the cracks in the ceiling like the cracks in my resolve,
One more night of "almost made it" before the curtain falls.
The crowd screams like a heartbeat, but I'm flatlining alone,
A headliner in the mirror with a voice that's not my own.

They hand me golden trophies but they weigh like sinking stones,
Every "you'll be next year's winner" just twists the knife I own.

I'm almost there, always hurt,
Close enough to taste the dirt.
One hand on the trophy, one foot in the grave,
Smiling for the cameras while my soul starts to cave.
I'm almost loved, almost known,
Almost happy, almost home.
But the spotlight's just a temporary glow,
And the high never lasts when the pills run low.

My guitar's got more mileage than my will to carry on,
Every chord's a confession of the dreams I should've drawn.
The road signs all say "famous," but the exits scream "regret,"
A sold-out tour of breakdowns I haven't had yet.

They print my face on t-shirts but can't see the stitches there,
A mannequin of misery in designer despair.

I'm almost there, always hurt,
Close enough to taste the dirt.
One hand on the trophy, one foot in the grave,
Smiling for the cameras while my soul starts to cave.
I'm almost loved, almost known,
Almost happy, almost home.
But the spotlight's just a temporary glow,
And the high never lasts when the pills run low.

Maybe heaven is a green room where the lock's stuck on the door,
Where the drinks are never watered and the guilt won't scratch no more.
I'll autograph my epitaph in Sharpie and cheap wine:
"Here lies potential, 1999."

I'm almost there, always broke,
Almost choked on my last joke.
One foot on the stage, one in the hearse,
Forever almost famous, perpetually hurt.
The encore's just a countdown till they all forget my name,
But the pain's got perfect attendance at every single game.