Every morning I wake up and think if it's the day I'll die?
Maybe it will be the day everyone's eyes get full of grief and tears as I
wave the world a last goodbye.
Will everyone remember the battles I fought,
Color against color, the blue and the red?
Will it really one day be enough to take me to my grave?
Maybe it was the bloody fists I carried all these years, that made so many
mothers shed constant tears.
Perhaps it's the pain I caused her, when I left her all alone, baby in her
arms, alone in the cold, not even a number to a phone.
Will that boy one day understand that his father pretended to be so cool,
but in reality he walked the shadow of death looking like a stupid fool.
Acting always on instinct and not of mind, he became the puppet of his own
charade never taking the time to show his son a good day.
I question will he grow up one day and follow the footprints that were left
to the road of sex and pleasure or will he find his true self and make of
his life a real treasure.
Thus creating a life of miracles and success for his years, instead of
creating bloody, selfish tears.
I ask myself will this really be one of my worst fears.
This from my mind I must diminish even though it is constantly the center of
my attention since my life has come to its finish.
I see the bright light I never thought I would reach as well as all those
people that for my soul preach.
From up above I see the light of my eyes reflect upon her face.
My son moves with such a careful, delicate grace.
Even though I'm never going to be his guiding hand, I am always going to be
his number one fan.

 
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