I find myself conveniently deep
When the weather is bad
Or when I cant sleep.
And so I count sheep.

So I sit there, in the cold,
In the very same chair
And I feel myself getting old.
Slow, I feel the growth of hair
With the same green cup of tea,
Self-obsessed, trying to find me.

So I give up and go to bed.

I sit up when I should be lying down.
Sitting there, lying to myself,
Prying out reasons why I'm still myself.
Denying, trying to convince myself
That I haven't given up
Pretending that I'm still the same man
That I once was, but no luck.

I do this until I fall restlessly asleep.
Wake up and turn on the t.v
and the Weatherman says:
"Cold, with a chance of sleet."