I'm hating the way I feel
even as I kneel
before the bed in tears
relinquishing all hidden fears.
She says he's dying
and for that reason I'm crying
for the one man
who I can
deffinitely not recall,
at all.
Nine out of twelve
I remember and delve
into my feelings deeper
and now I'm known as the weeper.
I can't help but cry
nor can I help but lie
not just to myself
but to everyone else...
He's never been there for me
but his dying will not set me free.
What about those years I waited
just to express all the hatred
that fogged up that mind of mine?
but now may not be the time.

And now as he lays in that bed
with many machines attached to his head
I look and the tears are rolling again
I speak and all I can say is, "The end"