Mr. Miller's Opus

I wear the same clothes for days at a time.
I've got the weight of a washing machine on my mind
with the whole world bouncing around inside of it.
And as I talk about doomsday and bands,
I'm letting the chance of a lifetime just slip through my hands
and land on the floor by the bed that I'm lying in.
I'm having trouble with sleeping again.
I turn to the stack of books that all my friends recommend,
but I can't even focus on the lines, let alone what's between them.
So I surrender and watch some TV
and just feel ashamed of myself for giving into complacency,
breaking the two packs a day mark days ago.
And I finally paid off the van then I bought
a new car with better gas mileage than the van got
but I know I'm financing a war fought for greed and bravado.
I know where my taxes go
while my taxes know nothing about me.
My roommate's boyfriend's a nice enough guy
but still I dread when he's here and I have to say "hi"
even though our conversations never go on much beyond it.
I don't know when I first got this way.
I think that I used to be someone with something to say,
but for the first time in my life, I feel more lonely than anything.
Because I know people my age with children
and I know people my age with husbands and wives,
even more people my age with high paying jobs,
even more people my age with miserable lives.
So it's they that I take shelter under
and let laundry nor loan payments ever put asunder
but help me stay happy inside of these four smoke-stained walls,
waiting for someone to call,
as I'm waiting to just disappear.