for Brett Gentile
I’ve seen too much to ever blame someone
For going blind to save her sanity.
Sometimes reality is like a gun—
Every last bullet’s an atrocity.
Each one mangles the trust you have in life
Till you see trap doors everywhere you go,
Assume warm smiles conceal a butcher’s knife,
And realize we all live on Death Row.
What can you do to live with that but lie,
Or drown yourself in drink, or run away?
We all endure what we can justify
And serve the master we choose to obey.
So how can I blame you for going wrong
To make it right, when you’re playing my song?
Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells