Do I Miss Me?

The dishwasher's loaded, the clothes are all dry,
We bought a new vacuum, so let's give it a try.
Make plans for a day off, precious time now to fill,
Shelving and units, a wood saw and drill.
A small glass of whiskey, and I'm sat at this PC.
Chores less domestic, but still no rest for me.
The glass will become two, and in short time: three,
Time to take stock of the people we can be.

A life on the stage was the plan of my youth,
A voice for thrash metal, to spread the grim truth.
A burning desire to set the world back straight,
To end all oppression, the bigotry and hate.
A pint after work in a regular local pub,
Then onto a local late-open rock club,
A shish-doner mix: the drunkard's best grub,
A hole in my best jeans from a cigarette stub.

So here comes responsibility, at a tender age.
The music's a moot point when you need the wage.
A daughter, a girlfriend, a mortgage to pay.
Taxes and shopping all get in the way.
But fighting the system still in the blood:
Stand up to Thatcher as all of us could.
The treacherous witch that brought us no good.
I still walk the path where the united stood.

Life can seem bleak and if your plans go awry.
It seem irreparable no matter how you try.
When someone removes all that you hold dear,
You're left with depression, sorrow, and fear.
But it's blocked with drugs and stemmed with drink,
Adequate tools to help you not think.
But you don't realize that you've started to stink.
The situation you're in brought you to the brink.

And there it could end and for many it may.
But life works out best when it's lived for the day.
For every "you" there is another like you.
Downtrodden, world-weary, struggling through.
We can find others with whom to make a stand.
We can end our misery in this fair land.
We can take our lives, but in our own hands.
Don't seek out the pitfalls depression demands.

Life, anew, like springtime. Memory stays.
Grasping the future. Cast aside old ways.
I'm scribbling the nightmares of unconscious dread
Loosening detritus that's still lodged in my head.
I know it can come back: the rising tide,
But I fight the urge to cry out or hide.
The horrible epilogue that seems inside
I avoid it. I won't even write "suicide".
Doh.

So I looked at the dishwasher once again.
It's not really that hard on my ageing brain.
I've got a beautiful car and a beautiful wife,
Wonderful kids and a pretty hassle-free life.
I can sit with a whiskey or maybe a wine.
Wake up next morning: things are still fine.
And no I don't care if it doesn't all rhyme,
As long as the end works out