The Blame Game
Let’s play the blame game—
take it to the sharp extreme.
Go ahead: pin the fault on me.
Let’s unlock my guilty vault and see.
I was the reason things turned out this way;
that’s the script you’ve written, day by day.
And I don’t blame you; you have every right.
I was supposed to be your pillar, your knight.
Even though I know I tried,
I did everything I could—but I guess I lied.
There was still more to give, more to be done
to lift your spirit, to keep our spark from being gone.
I thought there was joy in the double shift,
but I’d come home hollow, caught in the drift.
Hoping for warmth, for a light in the hall,
instead I find you, shadowed against the wall.
For that, I admit it—and I’m sorry.
Forgive me for the weight of your worry.
I’ll try to do better, to mend what is gone;
I finally see all the damage I’ve done.
But since we’re playing the blame game,
let’s turn up the heat, let’s feed the flame.
Am I the only one who got it all wrong?
How much longer can you sing this same song?
You say I work too much,
though I’m the man you need in the clutch.
But the idea of a job never takes root in you;
you stay home, restless, idle, and blue.
Yet you crave the luxury things—
the labels, the shoes, the gold earrings.
When I say "no," you say the love is dead,
and let a cold silence fill up our bed.
You don’t like the mess, you don’t like to clean;
you sit on that couch like a porcelain queen.
While the kids and I scrub, while we sweep and we toil,
you watch the TV while our tempers all boil.
Time and time again I’ve told you this,
but you just get "raven" mad and dismiss.
You say I’m treating you just like a child,
but you treat my advice like a secret reviled.
So I’m standing here, waiting to compromise:
I’ll quit the double shifts if you’ll break these ties.
Get a job. Help around the house and I’ll mend my own ways;
I’ll give you the world for the rest of our days.
So, what do you say?
D