I take these drugs to keep the Saints away.
Angels with gold curls whose tiny hands
grasp my thick ankles.
And you know what?
This aspirin doesn't work!
A long, hot bath doesn't help!
And you can just push away that thought of
a nice cup of chamomile to help me sleep!
Lately, I go to bed tired.
That's about as rare as a stuffed pig
in the bloody belly
of a dead llama.
I'm about as lucky as a guy
who gambles without money.
My caution button is never pushed,
and my ability to be tactful is as reliable
as a paper bag, heavy with meling ice cream.
And you think YOU'VE got it bad...
Don't talk to me about your
your scrapes and bruises,
your fading scars
because I don't give 1/14 of a fuck.
I'll start holding you
when you prove to me that I am not alone.
I'll love you for the person you are
when you stop inching away from me
like I'm the plague of this fucking century!
And I will let the Saints
save this scrap of soul I have
when you shut the hell up
and just listen!
The pill I need to swallow
is your permission to speak.
You can stop the headaches
if you just look at me.
And I will stop this rant
when you finally open your eyes
and try to understand.