Mama

Mama's in a coma.

And I keep myself busy,

Wondering when she's gonna wake.

I put a gun in my hand and hold the trigger,

Hoping its click might be the gentle kiss and shake --

To snap her from her nothing back to my world.

So she can hold me again with love that lives in the brain.

And not just love of the spirit.

Cause from what Grandma read me about the Good Lord,

I know the spirit alone doesn't do shit for a boy without his mama.

A boy needs thought, muscle and heart.

And he needs them from her touch.

When I put the barrel in their eyes, I see my mama looking back.

I know she's watching me through the black tunnel she lives in.

I hope the fear I fill her with is enough to bring her to light.

I know she feels the fear.

I know she hears the sirens.

I know she hears the footsteps in the stairwell.

Mine and theirs.

I know she sees the life leave their eyes.

And when it does, I know she hears me pray to that Good Lord,

Pray that their life, when it leaves them, will be sent straight to her.

Where it belongs and where I always needed it to be.

Where it never was.

Where it is I keep running towards.

You hear me mama?

Do you see what I do for you?

My name -- the one you gave to me -- spoken in radio waves,

Written next to numbers,

Redacted cause I'm still only your baby boy.

My face -- the one you kissed -- printed on their reports.

Still hot to the touch.

Let your hand hover closer, I swear you can feel it.

Keeping them warm in the cold of their nighttime.

Thinking on me -- worry or hate.

I'll take either one; I live for those for who its both.

They're my inspiration.

They keep me running.

I pray to that same Good Lord that they remember me.

Always.

Because maybe if they know who I am,

Even if they're wrong,

I'll no longer miss all the knowing I missed from my mama.