he don't talk much now that his spirit been broke
a man of few words that lost the joy a smile evokes
he don't speak of the good times anymore
feeling all the money in his pockets has left him poor
he don't raise his head much when he writes
ignoring the lovers and families around him tonight
he just pushes that pen looking for solutions and answers
scared of every lonely day coming like a slow cancer
he hates the eyes staring back in the mirror's glare
he hates the ways he sees that they use to care
and prayer don't work 'cause no one ever whispers back
he's a slow, trudging train on the endless track
of regret pushing and shoving for redemptions
feeling love all around him and his own lowly exemption
and he'll chat with you if you ask
but the words and stories you'll hear are just a mask
secretly he holds hands with a little boy
who's not coming back to be his favorite dandy toy
he's still holding his hand and only looking back
surviving each of his heart's attacks
with the bottle, with a guise, using memories to patch the cracks
and peace is all he asks

how I pray for him to find a healing, completely
dear God, how I wish he wasn't me