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.