i could forget the world in mother’s house
father’s debt to curb when the luck runs out
could’ve jumped by now, of course i’m fucking proud i stuck around
mum screaming, sons been found flat on the ground
peter catching up with us now, ducked around the corner, real mouse-like
heard him howl, cried real ghost tears when we got new floorboards and house lights
just some shit to keep the house bright,
know he’s somewhere in this house hiding,
when i see him i might swat him like a house fly
funny how the doubts write themselves out nice,
i took christ off my shelf, i pray to god the fucking doubts right
some things i’ve done ashamed, i kept my mouth tight
my ex survived me, can’t say how fucking proud i am
i dress like i rap, i don’t rap like i dress
addressing my trappings, but that’s my address
stuck there like the hat on my head, or the joint in my mouth, what i have to forget
the world in my mother’s house
every songs a response to a trauma response
and i mourn that it’s more than a want
mum barely affording the mortgage
if you came from what i came from, and turned it into “branches, gravel and salmon”, shit i’d let you say you did a great job
but i know my mums praying i never made that song
ava probably praying i put the weight back on
i’m still scared but some aches are gone
yet to hit a growth spurt, she probably couldn’t wait that long
a couple times i should’ve stayed at home but home hurt

sick of the lack of acknowledgment, sick of the bashing accomplishments, sick of the fragile and asking for compliments
sick of the wishing that i could get closure on why he was lacking in fatherhood
sick of the fact i did acid again, sick of the hand that’s attached to the pen, sick of the fact that he’s actually dead
sick of the lachie’s parading with minimum change in his heart, sick of the act and pretend
sick of the fact that i did worse and hurt she who actually cared
sick of harassment that haunts every crevice of this rancid address
sick of the pressure to be there for children who see me as someone to lead and to build them,
sick of the passion that’s left, sick of my boss never asking about how i’m doing
sick of the smoking less, sick of the shit that it won’t suppress,
sick of the vision of him holding her neck, sick of the clothing i wear
sick of the scars that i got while drinking with people i won’t ever talk to again,
sick of the growing my hair, sick of the shaving my head
sick of the 5”6, sick of the the thought of sticking the landing in front of every train that i get, sick of the “i’m scared”
sick of the blind threats, sick of my cat,
sick of the dogs on my bed, sick of them biting back when i’m trying to rest
sick of the hat on my head
so sick that i have to forget the world in the mother’s house
stuck like the hat on my head