Can Old Men Hold Their Heads and Cry

she might have been beautiful I'll never know she might have been the best mother ever Again, I'll probably never know no bruises, no witnesses did she lurch out in screams as you handed her the grief of your business how slanted you stood tell me was it brief or was she another victim sunday, bloody sunday how unworthy you are to see monday if life were a sitcom i'd been abortioned smiles, tears, divorce a portion of a potion if i make it to next year i'll be twenty-five and well alive I wish i could say the same for you Do you remember the twenty-first day of that ninth month she held on to this pain for you i was born for this bred from a diseased quilt a testament of mans filth a glass of wine a past confined perhaps we were nickel and dime'd to death sometimes life resembles a fine line of stress like a satin pillow with burgundy stains I worried you sane "was it not lovely when i wrote away your misery through my eyes i'll show you the world it was a beautiful place" i have no intentions to care what you think or how you blink when your nightmares sink you days have forwarded past you i can only hope to out last you i'd rather wear a mask then resemble a fraction of you there was a time life was as simple as green pastures slaves would cling to masters women would sing of asterisks of all the perfect worlds is this the one you designed i'm feeling quite refined over the years we've worshiped war so many have died you see the tears of porcelain stars yet you learn nothing nothing means anything until you lose something "If you lost your life for every mistake you made you wouldn't make mistakes." the black hitler's journal, entry II