Who knows me?
Who calls my name?
What do they want, its all the same?
Whether friend, lover or paperboy,
They all want me on the floor…
The elderly lady in her garden next door,
glances as I go by.
She’s no different, looking in my window,
staring at my figure,
not with lust but desire for what?
What she lost wanting to feel my fire…
Who knows me now?
The creator of this mess,
my life looking up from the bottom of the well
Have I became more or have I became less…
Who wrote this part?
This morbid script,
I’m just an actor trapped under my whip.
Write in a bird, so I can be free,
Give me wings, please let me sing…