The Wheatfields East of Eden

Sometimes I see a crying child,
When by chance I catch a glance
Of cracked a looking glass;
I plead, I beg, and turn my head,
he will not disappear.
Then I’m the child and when I see,
The bitter husk I’ve grown to be
I want to scream, tear out my teeth,
When I see what I called me.
For a man like me,
No sympathy, no empathy,
I’m so empty that I’m fishing
In the cracked bowl of my brain
Whistling a little tune
Just trying to maintain.

Trying to remember how,
Trying to remember when,
I gave up on myself, and then,
Gave up on the others, too
Then in my head again withdrew
I’m not sure I’ll ever know
Regardless of how far I go;
What is there that I can do,
To reverse the past, so I, at last,
Can be a person too.