Scribble
He wrote a letter to his old man but he’d gone,
Just a simple scribbled letter, like a chorus in a song.
Like the creases in her skin are not much fun,
I hope there’s satisfaction playing dumb.
We breathe the same air, you can taste the discontent,
in your disappointing, condescending rant,
you were hell-bent.
Until I’m chewing on the past,
spitting out that blood n’ glass,
and I’m barely getting by.
All the time trapped in this lift,
we could have elevated life.
He sent that letter to his old man but he’d past,
just a simple scribbled letter that he’d thought about too fast
They can fix her broken skin and make it last,
but the future is we’re living in the past
Down on my luck and I can’t understand it,
I had the world in the palm of my hand and
I rip it up on scribbled bit of paper,
I could act now but I save it for later.
Thinking what I would have, could have, would have, should have done.
Like I’m waiting for a train that’s never gonna come.
A little twist, a little bit of fate.
And in moment, it’s too little too late.