Recoil

Dear Ani Difranco: Thank you for always having songs that perfectly narrate my life. I'm not sure how you knew what I would be thinking or feeling back when you wrote your songs, but I appreciate it now. Sincerly, me.

Come home and my guitar has nothing to say to me
I recoil from all my friends and then I'm in misery
Been so long since I've been held, really since I was his
Probably just need to be held, that's probably all it is

Course then I think of my Dad, who travels mostly now
Back to when he was free and holding out hope somehow
Who sits all day in a line of wheelchairs against a wall
Inventing ways to play out time like us all

To all the people out there tonight who are comforting themselves
If you should happen to see my light you can stop and ring my bell
I'm just sitting here in this sty strewn with half written songs
Taking one breath at a time, not much going on

Little flashing zero on my answering machine
Rats scratching at my brain, braing shuffling it's feet
Yes, I have my fathers heart, it may or may not keep on trying
Can't really tell you what it is keeps me this side of that dark line

But I'm not there to take care of him, and I'm not here to take care of me
I'm going outside to watch the house burn down across the street