Silent depression,
but who the hell cares?
Who fixes the fixer,
when his tools start to wear?

We all have our problems,
that we try to solve.
I tried to fix others,
and never let mine resolve.

I’m funny, and charming,
“he listens so well”,
No one could imagine,
my internal hell.

The drinking helped,
well it did at first.
My problems melted,
but what replaced it was thirst.

Thirst for escape,
that grew bigger inside.
But I started to crack,
and the cracks became wide.

Then the voice crawled up,
and made a permanent home.
The one that’s trying to **** me,
and keep me alone.

Each failure and loss,
“lets have a drink”.
And then having another,
after throwing up in the sink.

Constant agitation,
and fear for my life.
Listening to that voice,
tracing my veins with a knife.

I’m lost in a world,
that doesn’t feel real.
I’ve killed all the realness,
with each drink I spill.

So tell me your problems,
and I’ll pretend I’m ok.
And maybe one day I will be,
not now, but someday.