The Journal of a Disappointed Man
I slip and slide through my life,
trying to get a grip on the rail.
I m grasping in the dark for a switch
that ll turn on some almighty bright white light and thus, illuminate the way, the path, make everything clear as day. And every breath I take seems to be quickly rolled up behind me and filed away in memory.
Only a particular scent or dose of weather can pinprick the past and even then,
the drawer opens flirtatiously for just a moment.
I have lost touch with everyone I went to school with, everyone in the village where I spent most of my formulative years,
everyone I went to college with,
everyone I ever worked with.
They too, are filed away, often angrily slamming the drawer behind them,
over something I said or something I didn t say.
My lovers cannot be traced.
I know. I ve tried.
I've taken trains to their cities and stood on street corners in the miraculous
off-chance that they might wander by.
But each time, I have returned home,
defeated and had to force myself to sleep
so that my heart didn t kill me.
I began my autobiography at 23 years old,
with the intention that I wouldn t live 'til 25.
But I d done nothing, loved no-one,
said nothing of any great importance by that time.
The journal of a disappointed man.
I took a position at the Natural History Museum
but left after only 3 months due to allergies.
Whilst deluding myself that I could reinforce
the scientist s power of detached analysis
with a poetic intensity,
I would cough up my guts on the glass
that held the giant stuffed man-o-war.
I had a gift of incisive and candid comment,
but I failed to ignite it
when faced with the apple-cheeked Irish girl
who served the tea in the basement canteen.
Drunk most nights, in the Black Swan on Canal St,
I would attempt to put my own complicated nature
under the microscope of a beer glass.
I walked home alone, opening the air with bolshy,
slurred dictums against religion,
ethics, love and life itself.
Lonely, penniless, paralysed by the guilt
of never having told my father I loved him,
I wander hospital corridors, posing as a visitor.
I have wept, enjoyed, struggled and overcome
but I remain disappointed.
trying to get a grip on the rail.
I m grasping in the dark for a switch
that ll turn on some almighty bright white light and thus, illuminate the way, the path, make everything clear as day. And every breath I take seems to be quickly rolled up behind me and filed away in memory.
Only a particular scent or dose of weather can pinprick the past and even then,
the drawer opens flirtatiously for just a moment.
I have lost touch with everyone I went to school with, everyone in the village where I spent most of my formulative years,
everyone I went to college with,
everyone I ever worked with.
They too, are filed away, often angrily slamming the drawer behind them,
over something I said or something I didn t say.
My lovers cannot be traced.
I know. I ve tried.
I've taken trains to their cities and stood on street corners in the miraculous
off-chance that they might wander by.
But each time, I have returned home,
defeated and had to force myself to sleep
so that my heart didn t kill me.
I began my autobiography at 23 years old,
with the intention that I wouldn t live 'til 25.
But I d done nothing, loved no-one,
said nothing of any great importance by that time.
The journal of a disappointed man.
I took a position at the Natural History Museum
but left after only 3 months due to allergies.
Whilst deluding myself that I could reinforce
the scientist s power of detached analysis
with a poetic intensity,
I would cough up my guts on the glass
that held the giant stuffed man-o-war.
I had a gift of incisive and candid comment,
but I failed to ignite it
when faced with the apple-cheeked Irish girl
who served the tea in the basement canteen.
Drunk most nights, in the Black Swan on Canal St,
I would attempt to put my own complicated nature
under the microscope of a beer glass.
I walked home alone, opening the air with bolshy,
slurred dictums against religion,
ethics, love and life itself.
Lonely, penniless, paralysed by the guilt
of never having told my father I loved him,
I wander hospital corridors, posing as a visitor.
I have wept, enjoyed, struggled and overcome
but I remain disappointed.
Credits
Writer(s): Glen Ashley Johnson, Jerome Antoine Tcherneyan, Cedric Pin
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
Other Album Tracks
© 2024 All rights reserved. Rockol.com S.r.l. Website image policy
Rockol
- Rockol only uses images and photos made available for promotional purposes (“for press use”) by record companies, artist managements and p.r. agencies.
- Said images are used to exert a right to report and a finality of the criticism, in a degraded mode compliant to copyright laws, and exclusively inclosed in our own informative content.
- Only non-exclusive images addressed to newspaper use and, in general, copyright-free are accepted.
- Live photos are published when licensed by photographers whose copyright is quoted.
- Rockol is available to pay the right holder a fair fee should a published image’s author be unknown at the time of publishing.
Feedback
Please immediately report the presence of images possibly not compliant with the above cases so as to quickly verify an improper use: where confirmed, we would immediately proceed to their removal.