Self Portrait

The Sun brings up yesterday's evils

And drags them back into the sky

I have not long enough arms, my love

To reach for the curtains of life

The days have a thing for believers

As the night has it hands in your eyes

And it may not just be tomorrow

It may be the rest of your life

Here is a song for the lonely

And a prayer whispered into the night

For a withered cunt, with a broken love

And a thorn wedged in his side

Food for the worms

Blood for the trees to grow

Muscle and bone

Arrogant soul

Song for the birds

Covered in apathy

Carving goodbye

In the back of your throne

This is the fight

Losing my sanity

Losing my mind

Find it my home

I don't blame me

I'm growing old

You limp through the small conversations

From the weight your back foot has to bear

As you empty your guts to the alley

And sweep up the yesterday prayers

These days I'm a sucker for tenses

I write in the third person now

And the days I'm not swinging for fences

I'm singing for ways to get out

And here is a song for the empty

A prayer uttered into the ground

For the broken king, with his arm in a sling

And his hands holding on to his crown

Food for the worms

Blood for the trees to grow

Muscle and bone

Arrogant soul

Song for the birds

Covered in apathy

Carving goodbye

In the back of your throne

This is the fight

Losing my sanity

Losing my mind

Find it my home

I don't blame me

I'm growing old

I'm growing old