“Our last conversation. You and I sat in the living room
Talking 'bout my music and I brought you some to listen to
You started crying, telling me, "This isn't you."
Couple weeks later, guess you were singing a different tune
You took them pills for the last time, didn't you?
They took you from us once, guess they came back to finish you
Crying my eyes out in the studio is difficult
Music is the only place that I can go to speak to you
It took everything inside of me to not scream at your funeral
Sitting in my chair, that person talking was pitiful
I wish you were here, mama, but every time I picture you
All I feel is pain, I hate the way I remember you
They found you on the floor, I could tell you felt hollow
Gave everything you had plus your life to them pill bottles
You gave everything you had plus your life to them pill bottles
Don't know if you hear me or not, but if you're still watching, why..?”
This is not a song, this is someone writing about me.
