These are the same streets
These are the same roads that he drove
Blood rolling down by the motel walk
My family's boast is a dead man's ghost,
I count the times that he chose badly,
I count the times that I went wrong, it's not the
Sometimes I guess that I lose my temper, hate myself,
and I curse my name, just like him.
My family's lot is the rifle shots,
Staring in the mirror and I see his face
And all of the hate and all of the rage
Sometimes I think that I'm not human,
I wonder why I never cry, and then I know.
Blood rolling down from the
I know that none of it was mine, and then
My family's blood mingles with the mud, but that's not me,
that's not me, that's not me, that's not me.