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 —
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.