It hurt when you put that gun to your head,

when you you wished yourself dead, to be injected with pure lead.

When you picked up the knive and went down stairs,

when those styrophone basturds made you think no one cared.


in my own simnple way, and I hoped one day,

you would see that.

That I wish nothing more then for you to fly away from depression and return to the person you once were.

the person who dreamed every night and day,

oh if only if only I knew a simple way.

To help you!

to go back to the days when there was no me I was you, and you didn't have this flu.

This sickness.

And as I rest here in this void I wonder one this;

how can I help you my boy!