I see his picture, when he was my age.
He had just been married and his wife swore she'd never love again;
he swore the same.

In a home video, I see where he kept his wife,
 In a cage with her perfect family that she always wanted,
and he'd stop by ever so often.

You hypocrite
You liar
You biggot with no desire
I love you.

I myself walking in his footsteps,
and hurrying to jump out of those shoes.
I see him in the mirror,
my jawline.

I see him on holidays,
sitting by himself and crying, regretting.
I want to scream everytime I hear his name,
"Why did you do this?"

I cut him out of my thoughts,
but I love him.
I see my mother's face,
telling me what he had done to her.

"I hope you're doing well son."
"I am, you too Dad."

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