He had a gift for melody, boyish voice
But sometimes it was hell to be him
His mental health could leave him no choice
But to go dark and stay within
Schizophrenic and manic depressed
Without art he could not get through
He wrote and drew like someone possessed
Which was quite often true
Don’t play cards with Satan
He’ll deal you an awful hand
Please believe me
Did I ever stop and tell you I am a desperate man?
His art it was said had notes of Blake
And Hieronymus Bosch appeared
His heart led where it would break
He helped keep Austin weird
Songs of Pain and More Songs of Pain
The first two albums by Daniel Johnston
Recorded in a basement of pouring rain
But would anyone want them?
But fans loved the way that he saw things
Tom Waits and Kurt Cobain
The Whitney showcased his drawings
But in the end was it all in vain?
Even though his demons took over
He waged a battle that is ageless
And if we looked at our lives closer
We might see we weren’t as courageous
Despair came knocking at my door, and I let her in for a while,
She sat on the couch and began smoking.
She said nothing.
Throughout November I am writing a poem every day as part of an effort to raise funds for The Center For New Americans. If you like the poems (or even if you don’t) and would like to support this fantastic organization, please follow this link. Thanks.