I Write For Freedom

I am my forgotten Father's mother, 

as absurd as that sounds.

I wouldn't say I raised him,

his dark spirit too free, 

but I controlled him, calmed him and kept him 

from doing things I feared he was capable. 

He showed me how to survive life, if

his good side was showing. 

Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, 

I raised my father to be good. I raised my father to be a front. 

He died, he died that day in our living room, 

that hot June sun burned his heart

and Mama slapped him back to life. 

The red sirens brought him back to life. 

However, Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, 

the good in my father died. 

I was my father's mother, a task that left no freedom, only self-control. 

I worked up the courage, my sister and I both, and showed my mother,

that helpless soul, that my father was a incubus, sucking the life out of her, 

chaining her to the wall. 

Courage-filled, hatred-filled my mother threw my father, my son away, 

and I cried when he never came back. 

Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, 

am I my father's daughter?

I lost what to feel, how to feel.

I feel free, but only when I pour out my soul. 

My father will die again, I saw it in my dream, 

but he will not return this time. 

Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, Schizophrenic, 

how I've come to hate that word, yet my father knew nothing of himself, 

and I gave us all false hope.