The Thought Doesn't Amount To Shit

I've found something I crave more than masturbation.
There's a fire in my diaphragm, a slow burn
it can go for weeks on its own
but every so often, it needs fuel.

Tonight I got a job, took a walk, smiled for a bit
Then I misspoke once and it all went to shit.
I lie in bed, listening to Amanda Palmer
hoping the burning will die down.
Guilt.  Shame.
I'm fucking stupid.
I don't deserve friends.
I don't deserve him.

I climb to the roof of Habitat For Humanity
And I marvel at the faraway city
I breathe in fire, and my chest roars
and I think,
"Nighthawks was so cold.
It's Early Sunday Morning down there,
and my throat burns."

I sit on the top level of a car park
It's so high, but not as high as I could go.
There's solace in altitude, being alone
But fucked if I can find it tonight.

I breathe in fire, and I say,
"Nighthawks was so empty.
I'd sit in an Automat until dawn,
but I don't have the change."

An abandoned silo affords the best view
Getting up there is a bitch and a half.
Moldering grain smells mix with the smoke
and I gag a little.

I drown the flames in mucous,
and standing up I shout.
"I'm sitting at the bar in Nighthawks,
the barman asks if I want a refill,
and I don't know what to say!"

My pack's almost empty
And the altitude is dizzying.
It would be so easy to just pitch myself forward.

One last cigarette.
I go home, and my voice is shot.