With hardened hands make a fist and take down,
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With one desperate hit you're building and shaping the hate that you feel.
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You're scratching out memories you're burning old stories,
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Twenty-one years of bearing the cross six months away.
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A mother has lost the youngest of three ungrateful unworthy of any pride,
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It's not what you have love it's just what you lack.
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Give up this act give it a rest,
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It's time to come home it's time to move back cause' I know you're not waiting on me.
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I hope you don't think that I'm letting go,
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So I look at myself and ask what good would come from this shell,
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But I can't say if any at all from here on out there's no point on dwelling
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On the fact that you put these conditions on a love that we had both given up.
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Burning Old Stories
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| The Snake The Cross The Crown |
