But It's Not Me

I smile and greet I'm a beautiful thing, some friends and old lovers I meet in the night, squinted and blurred since I gave up my ring, my insides not outside, my inside is not right. Occasional drinks while asked where I've strayed, it saps at my strength to put on this facade, the would be sympathy I am holding at bay, my organs are softened but I must appear hard. My back against reality as my demons I face, I am pounded by waves as I try to sleep, I wake and I wipe while my mind can't erase, the planchette of woe points into my deep. I'm fighting, I'm losing, I feel an embrace, but not of a sweetheart, a harsh about face, I'm not warm, I'm stark, a lightning tree, I have learned to act now, but it is not me. I feel the end is uncomfortably far, it's a while since I picked up my guitar, I take up my knife every day, I know not what keeps the blade at bay. A wise woman once told me things would be better, accepting no help as she thought I'd let her, so I steer free of strangers and friends that would be, while I invoke the danger that lends, but it's not me.