The mirror was foggy from the morning's shower
and my eyes were moist from the tears shed for the day.
I fear I will never escape this reality
without a handful of pills or some pseudo
relationship that developed at a lame cocktail party.
Another night of intoxicated love making
just creates another day of disillusions
and a relentless pain inside; so moaning
is the only way in which I can even
attempt to have some sort of way to maintain.
In public I smile; in public I wave to girls
but in the back of my head, behind my eyes
my brain traps me in some kind of hell,
this cell where I can't see any sort of parole.
No friends to ease me back down from that pole.
High as I have been in my life without drugs
but there just isn't enough love, enough hugs
to dope me into believing one day it'll be
as it was, okay to cry on a shoulder of a peer.
So used to beer and whiskey, coke and needles;
but this year it's been nothing but quiet fears.
No cheers for the salutes that constantly
go around in circles at the tables where I try
to eat my meal, try to ignore the stares I see.
'So skinny, so pale, so sick, so ghastly'
are the only praises I hear about me.
Even when I crawl my way out of the hole,
that one that in my youth I so easily
laid down in and found comfort in the misery
took hold of me in such a manner, such a way
that it is still unmatchable by any
thing this life has thrown my way.
"Touch me, please." My eyes seem to scream
out in a silent plea of uncertainty.
"I'm so cold, please." My voice shakes
as I try to plead my solemn case;
but no matter what medium I chose,
my desires seem to go unheard, I'm ignored.
Can't overly deny that I don't sympathize
with all tragedy or my ancient friends.
Seldom have I tried to make contact
with them; nor have they attempted
to see if I still breathe soundly at night.
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