This is how I let things go;

I build them up, then watch them blow,

When I can’t get over, and I can’t break hold

Of what you promised me,

At 8 years old.

Diamonds, lights, and streets of gold,

The time you stole,

And the hearts you broke,

The lies you told,

And the soul you sold

Have haunted me

Since 8 years old.

And I still believe in the dream.

In the battles, and the happiness, even in the in-between…

I still believe in streets of gold,

But I have to pave them, make them glow

With my two hands,

And on my own.

And this is not a letter to a father from a son,

Or a daughter to a mother,

Just an honest


And you’ve been pretty busy, so I bet you didn’t know

What you left with me

Since 8 years old.


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