A man without a catchers mit or decent social ediquite
A lovers tiff would drive him down
His eyes reeks of foul play
He burns himself into the ground
A knife into his bloated skin
To make sure he knows
That we care
Crying is an art to him
And art is a form of harm
We pray for you
This man is a forgotten soul
We made sure that he left it behind
And looked ahead to what is now
I was this man one day
But now I breath with different lungs
They are lost