they don't need him, ashamed of himself,
dragging around like a common beggar.
he's sorry for his troubles.
he smiles and i laugh,
lift glasses and slowly drink.
lips with little sighs.
i think that's what you're supposed to do.
sorry for your troubles mister.
his lovely little girl, dead.
his little boy, dead beyond.
soon he's crying
it frightens me.
my fear, my only comfort.
I was not alone.
Huddled, I cry alone at night.
No comfort in the regular defeat.
Overtime, it became impossible to believe.
Meaning, scolded for the understanding.
Sudden rewards, intoxicating and deceptive,
Bathing in the subtle beauty of insult.
The world opened up with joy.
he yells and cries and sings
i wish i could be at home,
heart broken by the fire.
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