I get tired,
And I get old,
And I get weary from being sold,
As a young know-nothing,
Fresh from the womb,
By the fleeting masses who too quickly assume,
That I bear no scars of wisdom,
That I know no truth,
But I'd tell them something,
About deceiving youth,
A certain innocence is painted as smiling on a face,
It paints a certain innocence across a smiling face,
It covers the reality one cannot displace,
My heart's known pain that I regret,
I've seen hurt I'll not forget,
Though I need not recount my darkest hours,
To prove the world how I know it devours,
So take me for nothing that you do,
And take me for something,
That's something anew,
For I am not small,
I'm not nothing at all,
I get tired,
And I get old,
And I get sick of being told,
Things I've already learned,
And lit on fire where I've been burned.
