He was never there for me
He rarely looked my way
When he'd come home tired from work
He never had a thing to say
And if he ever spoke to me
It was always in anger
When I tried to speak to him
He'd treat me like a stranger
What kind of father hits his son,
Takes out his pain on everyone?
Thinks only of himself, like he's the only one
Who exists in the world that needs someone
What chance did I have
Of turning out right?
I never learned a thing at home
That could help me with my life
Always being yelled at
And deprived of any fun
That childhood should consist of
Never loved by anyone
She always shot me down
With a bullet from her mouth
She made me feel so guilty
If I wanted to leave the house
She'd disregard everyone
In a power-hungry spree
Clean the house like a psycho
Driven by her OCD
What kind of mother neglects her son,
Puts down her child, says he's no one?
Thinks only of herself and if her house is clean
Wants nothing more than status and prestige
What chance did I have
Of turning out right?
I never learned a thing at home
That could help me with my life
Always being yelled at
And deprived of any fun
That childhood should consist of
Never loved by anyone
No chance of having self-esteem
No chance when rage is a constant theme
No chance of showing love for their son
No chance when they think about themselves or else no one
No chance when innocence is reviled
No chance when blame is placed upon a child
No chance if good examples can't be found
No chance if parents do not want to be around
