[Verse 1]
That cold November day, he penned the perfect poem to change the very fabric of existing
His pen bled beautiful bouquets of purpose blossoms
Yet he knew he was still on a quest to find his own pasture
Daily he would patiently wait for something to pacify his drive to feel alive
But he knew there was something, beyond just being a pawn that barely survives that enticed him
When he was sent away, there was a friend that would write him
But when that stopped, he began to write himself
His only friends were padded walls, a notepad and a pen
No next of kin left in his world, all by his self
There were many that tried to help
But no words could erase what he was forced to face that cold November day
His mother and father were orphans that found each other’s love
Had no one else but knew they had each other’s love
And when they had him, wanted him to have someone that loved him that he could touch, tangible, that loved him
But one early Sunday in November, he lay between his parents, a pure soul
He was barely four years old and it happened
Two masked men grabbed him from the bed
While a third woke his father up and stabbed him
A fourth held his mother down while she yelled “stop” and did unspeakable things to her while this four year old watched
Then they left him there, with his dead mother and father
Somehow he was fully aware of what happened and never spoke again
Deemed a danger to himself unless he’s holding a pen
His only high points was receiving letters from his imaginary friend
It was a cold November day
It was a cold November day
[Verse 2]
It was a cold November day
He lay strapped to a bed
And in his head is the only place he felt someone listened
There were times when he’d wake to watch the sunrise
And tried to find its beauty in the words that he had written his self
The cards he was dealt, perfect recipe for crash-and-burn
The lessons he had to learn guided his pen to the promised land
A blend of modern man and prophecy was a helping hand in waking him from his slumber
He’d often wonder, now twenty years later, if his life could reflect the life he pulled onto the paper
It was his only escape from seeing his mother’s face
Taking a last breath, he wrote what little hope he had left
His soul took control of the pain he had to say in order to break from his chains that cold November day
Destined to make a change, no longer scared and ashamed
Begin to feel the honor of having his father’s name
The words came easy like Sunday morning that Sunday morning
And the irony of that was a poem within itself
As his pen bled, he finally started to clear his head
And knew he was the poem within itself so
That cold November day, he penned the perfect poem to change his fabric of existing
He picked the perfect blossoms planted by his parents
While grazing the pasture of inheritance left for him
Not waiting to pacify his drive to feel alive
No longer waiting to fall off the cliff but ready to fly
You could see it in his eyes, how he left the doubt with ease
Just then he opened his mouth and spoke the words “I believe”
It was a cold November day
It was a cold November day
It was a cold November day