sick

Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man.
Night after night, we pretend its all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum.

How pathetic am I, that I read people's "Adult Survey" MySpace, and can't understand how we're only a few weeks into 2007, and they've already had sex this year. I want to call them hussies, and worse, but I don't; it's not really them I'm mad at. I'm just bitter because I doubt I'll even connect with anyone this year, let alone have sex. Another lonely year.

Run to the bedroom,
In the suitcase on the left
You'll find my favorite axe.
Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase,
One of my bad days.

Oh well, I'm sure I'll be ok. I'm always ok, if I'm not exactly good.

I have tomorrow off. I think I'll sit around in my pajamas all day.

Would you like to watch T.V.?
Or get between the sheets?
Or contemplate the silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly?
Would'ya?
Would you like to see me try?