A Jones for Self‑Destruction

I’ve got a jones for self‑destruction

I’ve got a hard‑on for the death disease

I hate myself, but I love everybody else

I hate myself, but I love everybody else

You can’t save a man who’s fallen

But you might save him as he drowns

Somebody throw the fool a lifeline

I may say I’m doing well

But one look and you can tell

That I don’t know what I’m talking about

Somebody save me from myself

Put a bad boy in a box

Throw away the key and lock me up

I’ll hurt myself and nobody else

I’ll hurt myself and nobody else

You can’t save a man who’s fallen

But you might save him as he drowns

Somebody throw the fool a lifeline

I may say I’m doing well

But I can hear hell’s bells ringing

And I can hear God’s angels singing

Somebody save him from himself

I’ve got a jones for self‑destruction

I’ve got a hard‑on for the death disease

I blame myself, there’s nobody else

I blame myself, there’s nobody else

You can’t save a man who’s fallen

But you might save him as he drowns

Somebody throw the fool a lifeline

I may say I’m doing well

But even a blind man could tell

That I don’t know what I’m talking about

Because I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about

Somebody save me from myself

© E Lee Hawkins

This is the truth I usually keep buried. The pull toward the edge. The urge to break what’s good before it has the chance to walk away. It’s me looking myself in the eye and saying, “Yeah… I know exactly what I’m capable of.” And not flinching.