My mother, the saint.
Alone in her room she prays
For her boy to get his head straight
On the eve of 1998.
Kid, you’ve got to live day by day;
Find your purpose, a reason to wake.
It’s been years, mom, but look what I’ve made.
I was eight years old when the pain took it’s hold,
When my stomach caught the burn
Like a man with a lie in his throat and blood on his hands.
I buried my head. I thought about ending it.
Because sleep is easy but I’ll have to wake again.
She swallowed the hurt and went away to work
With a sound heart and nimble fingers to remind us of her warmth.
How many people has she met?
How many problems has she taken on?
But she’s still standing. She’s still standing.
What fabric may stand the test of time?
What selection is most pleasing to the eye?
What stitch may hold this patchwork together?
It’s been years since my construction and I think I’m doing fine.
I’m still standing.
It’s still worth it.
I’m still breathing.
Found my purpose.
When the morning sun hits these hooded eyes,
With my back straight and my head held high,
I’ll do my best to bring your empty world some light.
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