Luyện nghe bài hát Confessions of the Rich Young Ruler

Feel like a stranger in a land
Twenty-something and depressed, guess it isn't what I had
Can't all the brands and the logos
While the Logos is a no-go—no, the
Doesn't sell, not too
me why I'm fetching books from the self-help section of hell

(And bell's like a death knell)

for the modern world
Everybody something, got to sell yourself to get the girl
Look at me, at me, here's my C.V.
Are you a Mac or a PC?
So it easy on the Francis of Assisi
Don't really see the point if it please me

at Christmas
What if I don't merry? Bit scary to think
I can't evolve 'cause I solve the missing link
Spilling ink I'm on the brink—jump and sink
Where's God? Are my ears so flawed that the Word's
Nah, He doesn't even

from the issues calling for tissues
Refugees, mass shootings, and the that we misuse
And the news continues into ever-new venues
next on the menu?
If I retreat from all your links and tweets, would that you?
Don't really care what you share about the darkness out there if you're blind to the demons you

Confessions of a blessed twenty-something depressed
Took my heart to God—where's my rest?
trying to be honest like the Psalmist
I'm not the guy, I'm not the calmest
joy, but I'm sadder
You can call me Jacob's ladder I'm up and down, smile and frown
Pound for pound, no match for Old Scratch when he's

I thought the couldn't hurt you
Then I the red pill and I read After Virtue
Don't to be a grump, dumping words, in a slump
Modern thought got more fluff the hair on Donald Trump
And the women and go
Michelangelo
But they mean the turtle, and I don't know
I just know

Excuse my muse storylines
sunshine of the plotless whine—hope you don't mind
My sound and fury not as purely as the Bard's
But existential is soarin' high as Kierkegaard's
Used to I had a trail, now I bushwhack
How can I wrestle God if He doesn't back?

Feel like a stranger in a land
Twenty-something and depressed, guess it isn't what I had
Can't all the brands and the logos
While the is a no-go—no, the truth
sell, not too well
Tell me why I'm books from the self-help section of hell

(And every bell's a death knell)