It's the onion that makes you cry,
As you peel the layers back,
It's the memory that won't let go,
Like a schoolboy smoking crack.
It's like wandering through the halls,
Of the house that you once built,
It's the rooms where you sought shelter,
And fought to free your guilt.
It's the streets that wind around you,
In the town you thought you knew,
It's the child who you once recognized,
Who quietly withdrew.
The scale you weigh's not steady,
Your clocks don't keep the time,
Your mind it won't cooperate,
Like you're guilty of a crime.
Not loving her strong enough,
Not hearing what she says,
Not letting go of your former self,
Surrendering your days.
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