you gave me a book when i was five years old
filled with colours and pictures and poems that were odd
short stories and insights into everybody's lives
i wanted to be them and then i ******* cried

when i was nine i remember it well
a birthday party that you couldn't see
we were the only two people who turned up
you said it was cause of me, bad luck

you care more about your reputation
than the daughter that you brought up to be picture perfect
you don't give a **** and if i fell down and cried
you'd probably blame it on some stupid guy

if i spoke a word of whats in my head
you'd question everything that i ever did
instead of asking yourself what i've become
ask yourself who put my hand with that gun