Control

He’s got his life under control.

He knows what he’s doing,

Where he’s going,

And when he’s gonna get there.

He feels the stress

And laughs it off.

He sees his problems

And blows them off.

Day by day it piles up,

And day by day he

Confronts it with

Supreme nonchalance.

He goes around with

His wit and his charm,

He has a quip for everything,

And something to say to anything.

He doesn’t worry about a thing.

Then he goes home,

To that place where facades die,

And he kicks off his shoes.

He puts on something sappy

And he curls up on the couch,

And he cries.

He tries to summon up his wit,

His arguments,

His never-failing reason,

But nothing comes.

So he cries.

Overwhelmed by how much

He’s gotten in over his head.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

He doesn’t know where the hell he’s going.

He doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to get there.

In this place the only thing he knows

Is how to cry,

So he does,

So that when the world can see him

He can smile and pretend

That he’s got his life under control.