Unmanned

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Wounded child
Not a man
Far too old, you play

Absent fingers
Hollow heart
Empty end of day

Highschool sweetheart
Dead to me
You abused my grace

One word for you:
Therapy.
Father-wound to trace

God’s guitar strings

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I confess my foremost thought
Will Satan steal my ballad-blues
I let him steal my joy for you
He wants to have my therapy too

So should I wade through what the truth brings
To your hard heart through God’s guitar strings
Beyond my green-blue broken life
I will, I’ll breathe
And then I’ll write