O' sacred patron saint of loss: I nailed myself to a broken cross. I turned my eyes to the heavens above. To my surprise there were none.
O' sacred keeper of the sin: I've knocked so hard, please let me in. I've done my best to be a good man. Now I'm ready to deploy imperfection again.
God bless the patron saint of pain. She's filled my skin with such disdain. She's worn my skin against the rain and still I love her anyway.
God bless my sense of black out rage. It acts as my sanguine gauge. I'm passed this unhealthy stage but I can't bring myself to turn the page.

The clouds came crawling. I dragged my way to the doorway to read a broken carving, a poor man's scrawling about some poor man's story, 4 tents on the territory. A kind woman lives here so tell a pitiful story.

Goddamn the creation of death; he stole my loved one's very last breath. He does so well at keeping my mind fed, without him, life would be meaningless.

Damn the gravity of the morning.

When the sun pokes its feral head in my room, I'm forced to remember all the awful things I drank to forget last night when I was by myself in an apartment haunted by empty shelves. I burned in my eternal hell. I punched holes in my external shell.

I've created my loss, I've created my pain, I've created my sin and I've created my rage.

In an affable way, it's pleasurable- the way I make myself miserable.

Lyrics submitted by ghostthrower

A Kind Woman Lives Here (Tell a Pitiful Story) song meanings
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