I was raised by confusion

Mothers back agianst the wall

she told me confusion taste like fire

and it burns like alchohol. 

The kind you rub and the kind you drink.

The kind you rub cleans your hurt

While the kind you drink has you convinced it’s cleaned up your dirty work

While the kind you drink has convinced you it’s taking away your hurt

While the kind you drink has convinced you  your problems are gone

When I cry tears of confusion

Mothers gentle love warms my heart

she tells me he loves to dance with fire

his ashes become an ugly piece of art

he left us in the fire burning in confusion

I failed to understand why he would do this

flashbacks of fire is he yet tired

the fire seems to never end and he paints a portrait once again.