I can't finish anything 'Cause I can't start I feel a constant swelling In the lining 'round my heart I have a certain quietude (That means that I'm morose) I want to write a masterpiece But I'm not even close The year is closing in and I Am where I was before: This stuff I've always fed off Isn't helping Anymore
I’m said to be smart but
I don’t feel it’s so;
The fires have died and
The feeblest glow
Is coming now from the
Place where I had been:
The weakest of voices
And frailest of men
The song I’ve been singing
Is old and obscure;
That to which I’m clinging
Has promised no cure —
The lines in the mirror,
My face and my wrists
Are making it clearer
That naught here persists
I call out for help from
The night’s blackened cave;
I long for the hand that
Can soothe or can save
And so overwhelmed and
So panicked am I
Each moment I live
Is just one more
I die
Woke this morning
To discover
That my heart was
Beating still
Still, amid the
Silent morning
Bargaining with
Mind and will
Will I ever
Know the comfort
That I knew in
Days gone by?
By the window
Drops are streaming
Gentle Autumn
Starts to cry
I don’t live in Bedford Falls
And so I cannot see
How everything would be if there
Had never been a “me”
At times I’ve felt most keenly
I would like my life to end;
At other times, I felt nothing
Except, without a friend
In this, I find, I’m not alone
It is a common case
That we feel isolated in
Our time, and in our space
And wonder what our purpose is
And why we feel so sad
And why each brand new promise seems
To turn out very bad
And yet, I still feel underneath
Down deeply at my core
That there must be a something
That we each are striving for
So help me, please, to view
Beyond the daily, constant strife
That I might find my “why”, and see
It is
A wonderful
Life
He played out on Depressing street
When he was just a boy;
The life that he was born to
Had a minimum of joy
Their hope had been abandoned
For a laboratory friend;
And every day, in violence
Someone’s stay came to an end
He lived in squalor, shabbily
And found that, as a teen
He’d lost his young ability
To flee by means of dream
He hung out on Depressing Street
With others of his fate;
And made the choices that he made
Until it was too late
