Look into my eyes;
tell me what you see.
Do you see the pain and the hurt?
What about the misery and strife?
I know you don't see them,
because I've worked to long
to keep them burried;
I've hated to much
for you to comprehend.
Can you see my defience?
Or my will to march e'er forward?
Maybe you see them,
maybe you don't.
You do see my confidence,
but never my shame.
You see my patients,
but not my temper.
You have recollection of my pride,
but do think you've seen me fall,
'cause you haven't;
you haven't seen my struggles,
just to get by and smile,
you haven't known the cuts your words
and my hand has left.
You know not my story,
you know not my soul.
Do not claim to know me,
do not tell me I'll have control.
I will be fine,
though you don't know it.
You can see all my strong points,
and only one weakness:
you.

Look in my eyes again,
what do you see now?
Do you see the tears,
the empty hopes and fears?
Do you see the mark
of his hand?
Do you see the filth
that I am covered with?
Do see my soul yet?
Do you see me?