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 aging face, the face that once was so beautiful,
Is still there but unrecognizable,
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,
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 catalogs, 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.