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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.
ALMOST exhausted.
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
drug habits,
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!

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.