Filmmaker My Black Lung Letras:
My father’s hands wore their way right through his
gloves through thirty years of doubt and love,
thirty years of drought and flood. Trussing grid
rode steady, moving in straight lines, traveling
from work back to the farm from the quarry to the
morgue. We grow into our father’s shoes, into our
father’s barstools, fill the roles we’re born to
play. This is one phase we wont grow out of. I’m
still saying this will never happen to me. If
you’ll be there when I need you, then don’t say
you’re leaving now. I’m up in arms until you reach
me breathing through this blackened lung. If the
minutes start like days and the moments feel the
same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
My mother kept a tidy house father tried to keep
her happy, the twelve hour shifts six days a week,
hardly constitutes a family, hardly constitutes a
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life, well it kept food on the table, but it kept
us up at night. We grow into our father’s shoes,
into our father’s barstools, fill the roles we’re
born to play. This is one phase we won’t grow out
of. I’m still saying this will never happen to me.
If you’ll be there when I need you, then don’t say
you’re leaving now I’m up in arms until you reach
me, breathing through this blackened lung. If the
minutes start like days and the moments feel the
same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
Take the pictures out of their frames, hide them
away with all our doubts and blames. We grow into
our father’s shoes, and into our fathers
barstools, fill the roles we’re born to play. This
is one phase we won’t grow out of. I’m still
saying this will never happen to me. If you’ll be
there when I need you, then don’t say you’re
leaving now I’m standing here until you reach me
breathing through this blackened lung. If the
minutes start like days and the moments feel the
same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
Letras: My Black Lung Filmmaker [final]