The Vagabond

I am just a lonely man, brilliant I suppose. And no one knows, my father beat me when I was a child; as my mother watched and drank Southern Comfort. I couldn’t tell anyone. No one knows, how I broke the T.V. to get my Dad back for killing my dog when I was three. As my Mother watched and shot heroin. I couldn’t help but try it; my Mother was the world to me. And there’s a mind in here behind this bandana, but no one knows it because I try so hard to be liked. I’ve felt many things, but never that. One day my voice will be heard; hopefully by me first, and then I can rest easy at night, on this rock-solid floor on a westbound freight train headed to New Orleans. And that won’t be so bad. I am just a lonely man, brilliant I suppose. I just need someone to listen.