Who would of known?
To the lips of a failed writer.
To crash a cup of wine.
To throw a toast to an islan that's slowly sinking.
I can almost, hear you.
Hear you crying.
Momma you are killing yourself.
Momma what can I do?
And I'll be the one putting pins into my fingertips.
Only to erase the memories.
And to laugh when I think what my father did.
She sits,
She waits.
She toasts her prayers,
Not speaks of them.
Momma you are killing yourself.
Momma what can I do?
She sits,
She waits
