Closer than close – you see yourself –
A mirrored image – of what you wanted to be.
As each day goes by – a little more –
You can’t remember – what it was you wanted anyway.
The fingers feel the lines – they prod the space –
Your ageing face – the face that once was so beautiful,
Is still there but unrecognizable –
Private hell.
The man who you once loved – is bald and fat –
And seldom in – working late as usual.
Your interest has waned – you feel the strain –
The bed springs snap – on the occasions he lies upon you –
Close your eyes and think of nothing but –
Private hell.
Think of emma – wonder what she’s doing –
Her husband terry – and your grandchildren.
Think of edward – who’s still at college –
You send him letters – which he doesn’t acknowledge.
‘cause he don’t care,
They don’t care.
‘cause they’re all going through their own – private hell.
The morning slips away – in a valium haze,
And catalogues – and numerous cups of coffee.
In the afternoon – the weekly food,
Is put in bags – as you float off down the high street
The shop windows reflect – play a nameless host,
To a closet ghost – a picture of your fantasy –
A victim of your misery – and private hell
Alone at 6 o’clock – you drop a cup –
You see it smash – inside you crack –
You can’t go on – but you sweep it up –
Safe at last inside your private hell.
Sanity at last inside your private hell.
