The Man with the Crying Heart

I watch from a distance as he plays his songs
I could still even sing along
No one else is there
He thinks he's not good enough—only plays fair
But the music always made me cry
Life and love in each melodic sigh

Only in his music does he live
The only real thing he can give
The rest is a cold, cold silence
A different kind of violence
Always hiding the pain and strife
Reality cutting him like a knife

The heart ache he won't face
From lie to lie, he runs the race
He thinks he will never be free
Which isn't true, but he doesn't see
The beauty in his soul would survive
He could actually be healthy and alive

Otherwise, he'll always be alone
The man with the crying heart, no one must know
I'm afraid some day his heart will turn to stone

(of course it's really about the Singer...)