The tomahawk man writes
In prussic acid,
The orphans of Eureka,
Freckled flaws and faces,
Yearn for their mothers,
Wish father might be captured,
And forced to think
Beyond his obsessive deciphers,
A bottle of cognac and three roses
Placed on his grave marker
Every January 19,
As a reminder of life,
And a toast to death.

I always was content, but too hungry to ever know it
Workin steadily, bettering myself and it was always showing
Always was the one to love more wether it was in tact or confusing and not hold back
Like the love of Romeo for Juliet with the strength of a married old man
I always was the wanderer and spacing off into my world
Wanting to find more like a baby crawling in a new room when it’s first born
Always was the first to show how I really feel about anything
Never being able to cover up what I was really to think
I always was the one to wonder about other people in my head
Asking questions to myself about family and friends but even people I never met
Always was the person to standout even when I was the same just because
Like the smaller pup of the litter always considered the runt
I always was hoping that I’m not the only person that always was