The whole thought of it makes me think,
That I’m falling down something.
Something worse than my leg aches.
Or the headaches I get from the aspirin I take.
A kind of sickness of the spirit,
A crack or the mind,
Or a disfiguring leprosy of the soul.
You tell me I should think and remember back.
But that is because you can't imagine.
The perfect agony of being seven.
The horrible complexity introduced by eight .
But I can sit here and remember every painful digit.
At nine I was the unwanted orphan,
I wished I could turn invisible.
When my head was dunked in a certain way.
At ten a prisoner, at eleven a wretch.
But now I am mostly at my cars window .
Watching the early mourning light.
Back then it never rose so beautifully.
Against the side of my car door.
back then it never seemed to illuminate the world so gloriously.
And my for head never leaned against the window.
As it does now.

As I play my harmonica all the dark blue sadness draining out through it.
The melodies giving me peace in a conflicted mind
The notes freeing me from the bonds of oppression that weighed me down.
This is the beginning of freedom I say to my self.
As I walk through the world in my small boots.
I try to be the man I was destined to be.
The man who I should be.
It seems only a short while ago I used to believe.

There was nothing worth while under my skin,
If you cut me no one would care as I would bleed
But now my worth is not determined by others but by me.