he sits there, desolate all by himself
a lost cause with no ambition to live
he's their creation, tehy're not there to help
a neglected child with nothing to give

their words pierce his heart in the cold, wet dark
those immature fools, afraid of the truth;
reality burns but their lies are more sharp
they watch their young diminish in his youth

they fought for years with no reason to stop
through the countless nights and the endless hours
the bruises prevailed with every pop
for his dad couldn't see his strength devoured

they could have helped but were too blind to see
it was dead they seemed to rather him be

Copyright © 2008 Lyndzie Garro. All rights reserved