Things Come Apart So Easily When They

I Was No Cherokee. I Was No Warrior. I Was Nobody Special. I Was Just A Girl, Scared And Angry. When I Saw Myself In Daddy Glen's Eyes, I Wanted To Die. No, I Wanted To Be Already Dead, Cold And Gone. Everything Felt Hopeless. He Looked At Me And I Was Ashamed Of Myself. It Was Like Sliding Down An Endless Hole, Seeing Myself At The Bottom, Dirty, Ragged, Poor, Stupid.

Two Or Three Things I Know For Sure, And One Of Them Is The Way You Can Both Hate And Love Something You Are Not Sure You Understand.

Babies Change Things, Open Doors You Thought Were Shut, Close Others. Make You Into Something You Never Been.

And Of Course These Days I Feel Like There Is A Nation Of Us - Displaced Southerners And Children Of The Working Class. We Listen To Steve Earle, Mary J. Blige, And K.d. Lang. We Devour Paperback Novels And Tell Evil Mean Stories, Value Stubbornness Above Patience And A Sense Of Humor More Than A College Education. We Claim Our Heritage With A Full Appreciation Of How Often It Has Been Disdained. And Let Me Promise You, You Do Not Want To Make Us Angry.

Don't Go Taking That Gospel Stuff Seriously. It's Nice To Clean You Out Now And Then, But It Ain't For Real. It's Like Bad Whiskey. Run Through You Fast And Leave You With Pain.