I am from paint,
from canvas and brush.
I am from the rose,
dead in my yard.
Where the sun never reaches the petals,
it lies, black and withered.
I am from the twin tree,
with moonlight sparkle show of the frost.
Standing still in the twin tree,
the unfair air ****** my bark.
The frost melts into a trickle,
as it leaves a black mark.
I am from the smell of cigarette smoke,
wafting off my grandmother's skin.
In her loving embrace is where I feel home.
I am from a mother,
who is bitter and somber.
I am from a father,
who is foreign.
I am me,
estrange and wee.
I am from a home I will never see.

sadness, sadness, sadness
as I sit outside I hear the wind blowing
I see the gray sky and bare trees
the wind blowing its frozen wrath upon my tear stained face
and as I look at the gray sky and the bare trees
I feel sadness and some relief

She stares;
but nothing is there.
Stays in her own head;
but just wants to go to bed.
No longer is she full of life.
All she wants is to end it with a knife.
She feels like dying.
Why do people think she's lying?

I don't know why I even try;
Can't you see I was born to cry?
My heart sinks by the day;
Can't you see I want to go away?