CRIPPLED

Sitting at my 
window,
I was watching
the stars;
Waiting for the moon to go 
down,
For the sun to
rise;
To the eyes 
those were red,
To the lips 
those were 
pale,
To the wrist 
that was 
bleeding,
To the bed that got wet,
To the calm and restless wind,
To the tomorrow without me,
My heart could
only answer 
that
Hope is a funny thing.
It was time to
stop my painful nights,
Time to forget
all that 
happened;
But one last I
could remember
them all,
One last time 
before I 
vanish;
The deeper my 
memories run,
The deeper I 
remember the 
cuts;
From that 
misery, I have
brought
To the people I made suffer;
From the 
stranger who 
laid a hand on
me
To the lovers 
who are nothing but err;
From the 
friends who 
called if need
be
To the amigos 
who stood by 
me;
From the 
toxicity which
surrounded me
To the 
vengeance I 
have spread;
From the glory
that I carried
To the pain 
that is 
clouded;
The gifts of 
destiny are 
dangerous
More mysterious than we expect;
I destroyed 
myself not 
knowing that
Hope is a funny thing.
I am just as 
pathetic as any other human,
Just as cruel 
as any other 
slaughterer;
Today I stand 
between my life and death,
Hoping for 
forgiveness to
come to me,
Good fortune to strike;
But I have 
lived enough to know
That good 
riddance is 
more than good;
Waiting for my
veins to drain
As I now know 
that Hope is a
funny thing.