On top of the hill,
is where he sat.
Nothing was real,
he was used like a mat.
He thought how it wasn't worth it,
how he was tired of being on the run.
He was tired of throwing a fit,
so there in his hand was a gun.
He was only sixteen,
in the 60s time,
when life was mean,
and being a good brother was a crime.
His mother being beaten every night,
against his brothers was assault,
his sisters being raped out of spite,
all of this, his father's fault.
He held the gun up to his head,
next to him the suicide note,
he wondered by whom it would be read,
as his spirit would begin to float.
He pulled it down.
Maybe something could be done.
He wiped away his frown,
and down the hill he began to run.
He thought:
"Maybe there is something to live for,
my future is yet to be brought.
There is so much more."
Twenty years later, he's still alive,
now has a baby girl, a house, and more.
He's teaching his lil' girl to strive,
just like he taught me, his baby girl, there's so much to live for.
