You call me broken,
But I am not of what others are,
So calling me broken,
Makes about as much difference,
As calling this planet a star

So next time you think,
About telling me who I am,
Just take a good look at your own hands,
Are they stained with the blood of the dreams you have crushed?
Or maybe the wishes you’ve caught?

So next time you think,
About telling me what I am,
Just take a look at your own hands,

You think that I’m guilty,
Of something I didn’t do,

You say that I don’t exist,
But that’s just your excuse,

Cause you’re scared of what's real,
You’re afraid of the truth,

You’re scared of the blood,
That’s staining your hands,

You’re scared of the world,
You’re afraid to let loose,

So don’t pin me with the guilt,
Of the gallows you’ve built,
Instead of seeing the truth,
You simply tied your own noose,

You’re afraid of yourself,
Of that trickling sand,

You’re afraid of what’s left,
Ticking on, all by itself,

You’re afraid of your End,
Of the change in these lands,

You’re afraid of the turning,
Round and round goes the hand,

You’re afraid of the time,
That somehow, passed you by,

You’re afraid of the clock,
Sounding still, tick, tick, tock,

You’re afraid of yourself,
Of that mantle on the shelf,

You’re afraid of your guilt,
You’re afraid of...