The Price

Hangover.  Not sober.  Pray to God for a do over.
The price we pay to make memories.

Passed on down through the centuries, the same old regrets and miseries.  God forbid, we forget our histories.  Forgive me as I ad lib my liberties.  But there she is, slightly out of reach.  My soulmate beneath a broken heart and nosebleeds.  God knows my intentions before they become apologies.
The price I pay to avoid memories.

Somebody's mother, down on her knees.  Clutching for a straw as she drowns in tragedy.  GOD, GIVE ME MY CHILD BACK, she pleads.  Stuck between faith and futility.  Take my rose colored glasses and sympathies.  Jump rope, pig tails, sugar and spice. 
The price she paid to make memories.

Sociopathic tendencies disguised as neurotic jealousies.  I reserve the right to vocalize my inadequacies.  And there she is, slightly out of reach.  Should have been me during her pregnancies.  Wasting time and energies focusing on lost destinies.
The price we pay to make memories.

Somebody's legacy drowns in sobriety.  A best friend, a source of guilt and anxiety.  There he is, slightly out of reach.  One day here, then gone so quietly.  God knows we tried so valiantly.  And we tell ourselves, it wasn't done in vain.  In the process of trying to save others, we lose our identities.
It's the price we pay to make memories.

There is no hurt without remedies.  No music without melodies.  No heaven without hell, metaphorically.
And here I am, slightly out of reach.  Hungover.  Sober, perpetually.  From now until eternity.

The price we pay to make memories.