The runt down by the river.
Canvas sheets that form a home.
Locked within the magic.
Most every moment
spent alone.
Lost within the nature
Yet somehow always finds a way.
To laugh away the madness.
To laugh away that useless pain.
He'd sit and play the fiddle,
to the cows and to the moon.
He'd play the whistle to the stars,
then raise his head long after noon.
I remember once he told me,
"Kid remember this!,
the ones that you have hurt the most
will be the ones your gonna miss!,
Never dwell in anger
never fold or bow to pain.
Take this from a black sheep
the one they think
is lost,
insane."
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
The runt down by the river.
Canvas sheets that form a home.
Locked within the magic.
Most every moment
spent alone.
Lost within the nature
Yet somehow always finds a way.
To laugh away the madness.
To laugh away that useless pain.
He'd sit and play the fiddle,
to the cows and to the moon.
He'd play the whistle to the stars,
then raise his head long after noon.
I remember once he told me,
"Kid remember this!,
the ones that you have hurt the most
will be the ones your gonna miss!,
Never dwell in anger
never fold or bow to pain.
Take this from a black sheep
the one they think
is lost,
insane."
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