The Caring Blues

The caring of such beauty in her heart is to distress and die without warning or notice, to live a life without happiness, to see her happy and her heart sing with another. The caring is such a devilish respect you have for someone who looks at you, like a statue, but without love, what good does it do. Caring is a song, that a nightingale sings to a lonesome heart in the midst of twilight, when all is lost, a shoulder to cry on, a heart and soul to comfort. But, in the end, when all is lost for you, when you're down in the dumps and have the blues, it always seems that those faces you once cared for, never show up, before the crack of a neck, the cut of a wrist, or even the pull of a pistol's steely trigger, gone, black, goodnight.