I ain’t no better than a dirty dime.

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I was reading a story from Rolling Stone about an old favorite of mine, Kris Kristofferson.  I don’t listen to him at lot, but if I want to taste the nectar of depression I play a couple verses of his heart-felt lyrics.  His music pulls me to my computer like a bee to honey.  And I stay until I’ve been stung too many times.

I ain’t no better than a dirty dime

I’ve got the writer’s itch,

when words flow from my mouth

like grease droppings on a dirty floor.

Thinking about days gone by

as they skip out the door.

Hey little buddy of mine,

you’re ain’t nothing but my little whore.

All my writing, singing, and therapy stuff,

don’t change me a little bit.

I own you, he whispered that night,

you little buddy of mine.

You ain’t no better than a dirty dime.

Hey, Kris Kristofferson,

you old buddy of mine.

I’m goin’ turn you off,

‘fore the dark fog moves in.

Best you go away,

before I begin to believe

I ain’t no better than a dirty dime.

Tagged: creative nonfiction, Depression, Kris Kristofferson, music, poetry, sadness, writing