it's easier to control than to trust in you, but if I can't keep the peace, what hope have I in keeping order? i'm battered and bruised, but only heroes have the right to bleed; and I'm no hero. i'm not even satisfied. there are no heroes anymore. not a one of us is pure. we have yet to earn these tears. we are all the black-sheep spawn, staining the carpet with tears that bleed red, thinking we suffer, crying for ease, and close as a heartbeat, our song always ends. we have to belive that self-sacrifice does not compare to the tears in your eyes. a portrait speaks a thousand words, not a one pleasant, and never enough. why do we always sell ourselves short?