Shackles promise freedom
But the laughs of clattering chains
Are pulled back by inner demons
I allow them to remain

Links from past to present
I’m unable to let go
I try so hard to forget
But it’s out of my control

So I cry to know I’m living
And I scream to know I’m here
The pieces are not fitting.
Do you hear me?
I cannot help but wonder
If freedom is near

The world crumbles around me
But I’m chained to the wall
Too attached to what could be
My demons hate me all and all

Suffocating in my past
I’m trying to break free
The world is stable in contrast
To what’s inside of me

So I cry to know I’m living
And I scream to know I’m here
The pieces are not fitting
Do you hear me?
I cannot help but hope
That my freedom is near

We cry to know we’re living
And we scream to know we’re here
The pieces are now fitting
Do you hear me?
**We cannot help but know
That freedom is here.

What do you see, people, what do you see?
What are you thinking, when you look at me?
Do you see a grouchy old man, reading my book?
Lonely on the doorstep, drinking my beer.
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes; you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still!

At 20 I have wings for feet and fly like a bird
At 30 my dreams of love,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At 50 I contemplate the future alone.
At 60 I think of the years, the loves I have known,
A life that passed me by.

What do you see when
I struggle on my zimmer frame
To buy my Bulmers ?
So you see a body broken,
A man of poor character.

Well let me tell you this,
Inside this lumbered body, lives a young mans heart,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the pleasure and the pain,
I think of the years all too few – gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see,
Not a sad old man, LOOK CLOSER, SEE ME
A man of memories and dreams,
A Life story to tell.

I fight in a battle against myself,
a war between life and death.
The longer it roars on,
the less chance, I think,
I have to win.
And I have to win,
because losing means
that I lose everything,
and everyone that matters to me loses, too.
In this fight to the death,
I’m killing myself slowly,
my addiction eating away at
my health,
my judgments,
my relationships.
I am either looked at
like a sad puppy,
pitied and worried about,
or a diseased dog,
judged, backed away from.
I am losing myself
as I lose this war,
and it looks, indeed, like I am losing.
This is a fight
between my addiction and me,
and it is the stronger foe;
it is my mortal enemy.
And when it’s done,
when it has won,
I’ll have lost my mortality.

I am dying,
and I can’t stop it,
even though I am the only one
who can actually try.
I feel hopeless
as I fight against myself,
the addict-me versus the old-me,
as the old-me tries to win back
what it lost so long ago.
I don’t even remember
what sober feels like anymore.
Every time I try to quit,
I fail,
I sit
writhing in agony
as my need proceeds
to pull me back in;
the taste I can’t
get out of my head
overwhelms me
until no longer can I see
straight,
and more than anything,
I truly hate
that antagonizing taste
inside my head,
because soon enough,
it will leave me for dead.
But until then
I can only try to survive,
as I fight myself
and the addiction inside.