He was an expression of art
tall, dark and handsome
like fresh paint on stretched canvas
he was beautiful
intriging and inspiring
he was my painting
such a present to have
arms wide open
unconcerned with the impurities that poured from my soul
twas his chest that called upon my cheek
and I knew
he was my dream
I imagined him always there, then somehow
I was wondering where he was
it was our life he traded in exchange for these fist full of secrets
they became chains of lies and deception
he became a stranger to me
the fact that he'd rather get high
then come home
explicit pain wasn't watching him fall
but knowing his eyes are wide open
standing there lending him my hand
as he offered nothing but the side of his face
it's not our severed relationship I was trying to save
or our bastard child I'll alone have to raise
it's the loss of a friend and a love in my life
watching him let himself down
believe me when I tell you
he was my death
now I sit here and take a good look at myself
and I wonder " what the he'll am I doing?"
and then I glance down at my son looking up
and I refuse to make any more excuses
for I loved his father, and I gave him my all
with my problems, my pain, and my confusions
and when I messed up I had much regret
but really, there's nothing else to it
when that man walked away
and not once turned around
(and I know that he heard me call him)
I stood there, breathless, without making a sound
dying to know who it was I fighting for
and when I remembered my son and myself...
It was me who walked out that door
he was my reason