When you look at me, is it me you're looking at?
Or is it just an image of perfection crafted up in your eyes?
Not the flawed boy, whose blemishes scream to be screamed at
Not the brokenhearted child, whose cries never escape far and high.

When you talk to me, are those my words by which I am heard?
Simple, undecorated, they take pride in their honest grace
But no, through your ears, contents, unaltered, yet their meanings reword
My voice is heard, yet how I wish within me it'd just stay.

Pain in the end comes down upon those who are not at fault
Constant doubts forever lurk in one corner of their minds
They're scared, scared of these mental assaults
That tis' not them they are remembered by.