Too Busy to Cry
I told a young man that his best friend was dead today.
But there is no place to cry.
That will come years down the road.
And tonight I have to fly.
It will sit and rot inside of me,
Until once well and full,
The levee will break while I’m mowing the yard,
And I’ll look for a trigger to pull.
For some it’s away but for me will be toward,
And I don’t think you can blame one or either,
For some not a gun,
And instead a slow pour of liquids, and powders, and ethers.
My singular chance is that when the day comes,
I’ll bump into someone who’ll prop me.
And if I’m the man that I’ll want to be then,
I’ll let go the guilt and they’ll stop me.
I’ll never forget the look on his face,
Or the feeling we both lost to time.
Maybe one day, I’ll get to okay,
But tonight I have to fly.