Some things are better left unsaid,
Yes, some deeds are better unknown,
And none of mine show.

This page seeks my right hand,
WIth promises to widen all that I hold,
Yet my eyes grow old.

Riddled with ink marks of the dead,
Who stood to shift the world by their eyes,
If I stood to leave these marks unread,
Then my ink won’t fall by the wayside.

The road winds.
And we call erratic.
‘Cause roadside,
Is where we’re ever safe.
To hesitate.
And call out hate,
But never change.

Yet bludgeoned bodies fill such books for pages,
Red ink anthologies for every age and,
Blood wars to rattle up our souls and set the stages,
To clench my fists, expel my lungs,
As if one man could do enough.

That night you hollered,
“There must be something waiting,”
“There must be something,
Terrible that halts your every move.”
“So start and take up a stand.”
“So just lift up your right hand.”
“So make that change,”
“Avoid the day you’ll say, ‘I never…’”

You’re right, my Baby Girl.
You’re right, my Baby Girl,
And I swear I will never…

You’re right, my Baby Girl.
You’re right, my Baby Girl,
And I swear I will never stop.

“Hesitate.”
(HOLLER. AND. SCREAM. OUT. LOUD.)
“I’ll never change.”
(SCREAM. RIGHT. NOW.)

Riddled with ink marks of the dead,
Who stood to shift the world by their eyes.
If I stood to leave these marks unread,
Then my ink won’t fall by the wayside.

By the wayside.
By the wayside.
By the wayside.
By the wayside.