The blue smoke rises from the ashen end...
it always does.
I look around these same fucking rooms
at these same fucking walls and try to find
a witty reason not to kill myself again.

I try it with the guitar,
with the drum,
I try with pen and paper,
paint and canvas,
pounding on the keyboard,
food,
sleep
(dreams I can't remember),
lies about the coming weather ,
the missing girl,
the northwest territory,
inheritance,
drugs,
and peace.

You see...
I have no purpose,
no real worth.
meat bundled
around
a spine shot through with nerve.
A paycheck,
and thoughts...

I think the day is long,
the night is longer.
I think love breeds pain
and food cures hunger.
Truth from the eyes,
and from the mouth...

lies.

I wait for the phone to ring,
and cringe when it does.
I'm no Whitman
and I never was.