oh, you are but a boy, you are but flesh and blood
but yet your chest is my confessional, a place
where i may weep, and pound my fists, and get nowhere
you told me once you were a musician, and i believe
your songs are the small things that keep me smooth
so sing low of things that never should have been
but were; sing slow of things unseen, but felt
close, close to my crippled machine of heart
remind the soul to smile; revive the listless
dreams that have been left undreamt for fear of losing
self in the process of finding stars to wish on
fix me, i beg, i weep, make this whole, fill the hole
create something where there is nothing

ah, but you are but a boy, and have no answers