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Mom (prod. Nolan The Ninja)

from by Chris Orrick

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lyrics

And now that you've been gone for a decade
It's still hard not to cry on my best days
Haven't been to your grave in a couple years
I'm ashamed, but it's hard Mom.
Still fucking weird.
Guess I thought it'd get easier
Might find some peace in you leaving behind your demons here
But here am I turning thirty, just a man on his journey
I'm not mad, understand I'm just hurting
The more that time goes, the older I get
The more I realize the show that you missed
It's a whole lot of shit
I graduated from college, got a degree in the politics
Had a dream and I followed it, cross the country and ocean
And you missed all of it
But I'm alright though, still walking that tight rope
I have my days and I go through my phases
Where I'm fazed by the little things, but that's life though
And yeah I'm still with Kath
Thirteen years and no kids, just a little cat
His name's Pistachio, for short we call Stash
And I'm still doing rap, but feeling like I'm falling back
Steve and Mike are doing good
Couple engineers trying to make a better livelihood
And Jay's a little trouble maker, hard on him but I love him
And I don't wanna see him see him struggle later
Dad's doing the best that he can
I'm just praying for some rest for that man
Wish I could have seen the two of you when you were younger
Grow old together, couple things had messed with that plan
And my plans need some work of their own
Keep you alive with these words that I wrote
'Cuz you'll never meet your grandkids
And never see your kids married
I guess that's the part that hurts me the most
It isn't what you missed before, but what could have been
What's to come and what should have been
And every year I miss you more
I see your reflection in that man in the mirror
When I take the time to look at him

credits

from Portraits, released May 4, 2018

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Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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