A boy, fifteen or sixteen, lies in his bed
His concerned mother stands at the
Bottom of the stairs
Yelling at this blonde sleepyhead
But she is unable to control
This fool's habits, his life
For every second he lies in bed
He is hacking away his future
With a tool sharper than a knife
He says he does not care
That he's crushing his lifelong dreams
He does not even listen to those
Sympathetic screams

A man celebrates his 35th birthday, alone
He raises the bottle of liquor to his lips
And silently makes a toast
To try and bury this horrible life
his mutilated hand
Runs through his graying hair
And he drinks the flame
From the eternal fire
A punch from behind takes all his air
And the form from it also steals his few

An old man, roughly seventy
Lays down to bed
He thinks about his life
And his eyes swell red
The last emotion this man will feel
Is the only pain that ever seemed real
He runs his old hand th rough his silver hair
Once more
And touches a scar from a bad memory
As this man closes his swollen eyes
He remembers when he was a young boy and
His mother cared so much for him
But he broke that wonderful, vibrant woman's heart
With his disgust and lies
He died right there in his bed that night
That was the last time the lights went out

Autumn Richards 1998