No job, no life, no money, just me, myself all on my own,
walking through a cold place realising, I'm walking with no expression just a blank face.
I wonder how to make the first step, when they say we all make our own happy endings, But how can they make it any harder, when I'm looking at life through the eyes of a broken father.
I have no choice but to pack up and go and see my feet gradually touch one of the last stones.
People sit there and judge me for making my mistakes, I run but get nowhere so I pick up the pace.
So I sit down and write my story on a piece if paper, ...