I could have bought a house in the suburbs.
I could have learned how to drive an SUV.
I'd still have the same estranged wife, now add mortgage payments and a 36 month lease.
This food on the table is not enough.
The roof over our heads will never be enough.
The best intentions in the world mean fuck all without the results to back them up.
Behind door number one is a deadbeat dad.
Behind door number two is a bitter old man.
"Why must you see everything in white and black?
Now jump higher, a little bit higher."
The young girl, she learns so much from me.
Fuck responsibility or fuck your dreams.
Neither option sounds appealing to me.
"Now jump higher, a little bit higher."
This bedroom looks like a mausoleum.
It's filled with clothes that she has never worn.
Filled with toys she's barely played with.
Stacks three feet high of things she'll soon outgrow.
I tried to change, but it wasn't enough.
If I changed more, would it ever be?
The worst recollections in the world can still fill books with all of my fuck ups.
I learned at a young age that desire is wrong.
Got hammered back into the round hole where I belong.
"Stand by your man" is just a song.
Our family album, a Mobius strip.
A Venn diagram filled with all kinds of fucked up shit.
I'll make weekly payments, arrange visitation, and you can tell your friends I never tried.