The Black Dog
(A portal into the dark night of the soul. Enter at your own risk.)
The black dog is on me again
Sinking his teeth into me
Why is it hard to move?
Oh, those chains on the ankles again
The tunnel vision
I’d be scared if this wasn’t so familiar
So I should be more scared than ever
One of these times may be the last
How have I survived this long?
Who am I anyway?
What value to anyone, really?
Once I thought I had something to offer
But it’s all used up
Or maybe was never there
Whatever, my hands are empty now
And hope is inversely proportional to age
The sparkle still comes to the eyes
The voice still lights up
But it’s when someone else is in the room
Or on the other end of the line
The secret email account slaps me in the face
The buffoon is outside in the dark and doesn’t know it
How charmingly comical
I so enjoy bringing mirth to others
I hope I’m an interesting specimen
Squished here on the microscope slide
“Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there”
I try, but my soul is impaled on it
I can’t be rid of it
So I squirm
But the more I squirm, the more it hurts
So just accept the status quo
Try to push the needle from the annoyance end of the scale
To the tolerated long-time acquaintance end of the scale
Don’t expect the gauge to read anything else
Belching diesels have different gauges than jet engines have
Go through the motions
Be the live-in handy man
Fix the broken junk of our lives
Find joy in a tool that whorks
Wen it does
Stir things up and they just get worse
Response is always opposite what I seek
And in the end it always comes back to me anyway
I’m always at fault
And I’m always sorry I brought it up
So don’t bring it up
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness
Where are my matches?
Oh, here! Good!
strike
strike
strike
strike
strike
soggy mess
can’t see much
everything is blurry
sure is cold
damn it all
Sinking his teeth into me
Why is it hard to move?
Oh, those chains on the ankles again
The tunnel vision
I’d be scared if this wasn’t so familiar
So I should be more scared than ever
One of these times may be the last
How have I survived this long?
Who am I anyway?
What value to anyone, really?
Once I thought I had something to offer
But it’s all used up
Or maybe was never there
Whatever, my hands are empty now
And hope is inversely proportional to age
The sparkle still comes to the eyes
The voice still lights up
But it’s when someone else is in the room
Or on the other end of the line
The secret email account slaps me in the face
The buffoon is outside in the dark and doesn’t know it
How charmingly comical
I so enjoy bringing mirth to others
I hope I’m an interesting specimen
Squished here on the microscope slide
“Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there”
I try, but my soul is impaled on it
I can’t be rid of it
So I squirm
But the more I squirm, the more it hurts
So just accept the status quo
Try to push the needle from the annoyance end of the scale
To the tolerated long-time acquaintance end of the scale
Don’t expect the gauge to read anything else
Belching diesels have different gauges than jet engines have
Go through the motions
Be the live-in handy man
Fix the broken junk of our lives
Find joy in a tool that whorks
Wen it does
Stir things up and they just get worse
Response is always opposite what I seek
And in the end it always comes back to me anyway
I’m always at fault
And I’m always sorry I brought it up
So don’t bring it up
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness
Where are my matches?
Oh, here! Good!
strike
strike
strike
strike
strike
soggy mess
can’t see much
everything is blurry
sure is cold
damn it all
posted by wingman at 9:45 AM
1 Comments:
Of all from March '05, this was my favorite and offered some interesting insight. So much of this strikes with many/most males - especially the "live-in handyman" line. I'll probably send this to Brad Hunt (without telling him it's you) - since I think he'll respond well to this. I look forward to future conversations.
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