I can't help but cry,
like a wounded soul,
bound with chains to my heart,
but maybe this change,
maybe these broken things,
are the lifes beautiful horrible art,

these hands are calloused from work in the days,
and these eyes seem to know more than they should,
but back just hundreds of days ago I was naive,
and over my heart and mind lay a black protecting hood,

I'll protest at the hurt of my losses,
but smile at the prospect of gain,
for now I know I can't grow up,
without feeling some of this mutual pain,

These hands can touch the stars,
and these eyes can sometimes see your soul,
and maybe without the pain and the change,
our hearts cannot ever be whole,

and though I am young and have much to see,
I am no longer totally blind,
for the things that I missed as a child,
I've realized have come without the feeling of "kind",

and so these hands will work till death when we part,
and these eyes will learn and see more than I can know,
but the changes and things I've witnessed have scarred me,
and for certain they are neither friend nor foe,

and I can't help but cry for the things that I lose,
but weep at the things I have seen,
and the older I grow the things that I know,
are never quite nice as they seem...