I feel like you now, and it hurts-- this pencil's shadow is ashamed. Why did you yell like that? When I was six, was seven was twelve seventeen, eighteen. Where to place the blame? On you, the bottle your small origins your father, gone before you could read. That poor woman, your wife her smile flattened for how long now? You try and guess who I am who I've become who I will be. The answer not you.