My man digs graves
Digs every day
He don’t paint no walls
He don’t write no books
And when he’s paid
He buries the money
My man digs graves
Deeper every day
He don’t sing no songs
He don’t twiddle no thumbs
And when he’s late
He’s gone for days
My man digs graves
Digs like in chains
He’s got them all placed
He’s got them all named
He doesn’t pray
He digs deeper every day
Ah,
My man digs graves
I wonder if they miss me
I wonder if they’re proud of me
Once I’d grown up I forgot all about them
Once I’d grown up I left the house and hoped to never see them
I miss how it felt to be within their strong embrace
They used to be strong and kept me hidden, kept me safe
Now they just seem so small when I’m around them
And frail when I touch them
Thin
They watched me lose all of my friends
Over and over and over again
Kept an unblinking eye on the road
When they knew I was out somewhere, and I was probably cold, and alone
The days I ran excitedly home
The days I was miserable, or irritable, or preferred my phone
I used to shout my hateful spit at them
They would never reprimand, nor react, which was what I needed, for them to understand
They never spoke but they always welcomed me home
They listened to me implore God to start
They listened to me implore God to stop
Somehow, I miss them a lot
Nobody knows me like the four walls of my childhood bedroom do
Leo Grey 