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 And 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 And 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