one clean pure white sheet of paper fills
from one child's self taught pencil skills
something's been wrong, and it's been wrong all along
but it's not money, so we move on
but it's colder in the house than it is outside
where we see crosses in the overlapping traffic lamps, street lights, and stop signs
and a ghost has stopped moving on my dark bedroom wall
i'd say five years old and three feet tall
just like me
i will keep this in a safe place son
wrapped around the barrel of my gun
for that approaching night when this trailing death fright
sends me creeping into his arms
they don't know i never leave the house
what the fuck will happen when they figure that out
and who could be downstairs at 11 AM
i better go downstairs and see what it's about
oh my god
now papa's watching that old faucet drip
tied up and trapped like a baby in his crib
and as one tiny cup lets its glass walls fill up
the key starts turning,
and his heart gives up