Despair Came Knocking

"Despair came knocking at my door,
and I let her in for a little while."
- Daniel Johnston

I'm listening to "Twilight" by Elliott Smith
who created a lot of beautiful music
before driving a knife into his own heart
after many years of drug use,
and six months of sobriety

There's a tightness in my chest
that's as familiar as coffee
and hand-shakes,
and my body itches in a dozen places
and I'm unsure why

I've seduced and been seduced by
a lot of women
from different races and walks of life:
but none of them could love me,
except for one
whose mania nearly killed us
and I had to send her away;
I don't think we were right together,
but I believe she loved me.
In our mad dance
we risked our lives for each other,
and that used to make me happy

But now,
mostly I feel despair
and my plush private apartment
is a dungeon cell,
and a menacing guard
pushes hot T.V. dinners
through the slot in my microwave

And I suspect cold-turkey punishment
is just weeks away,
and might be worse than last time
or I could re-hab
but I might get thrown out of that
(since childhood, I've been thrown out
of more things than I was ever in)

I'd like to read a book
of history or cultural adventure,
but my eyes are tired
from zillions of words,
and countless cross-walks
with cars that often don't stop...
knowing it's only your bones that'll smash

I'd like to talk a walk
but my joints are quite stiff
and my muscles ache
from a hundred sweaty journeys,
and a river of drugs legal and illegal
that have flown and flow
through this fleshly temple of Bohemia

I could turn on the T.V. god
and try to find some solace
but the entertainment spirits know
I don't worship them,
and they'll only torment and mock me
in a thousand ultra-clever ways

And yet,
my office chair is eating my spine
and I need to lay down
to silence
or the insipid drone of Hollywood or CNN

It's either that or a knife in the chest
and I don't really want to die...
or have Elliott's courage