Twice a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.

Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder 'tis how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.

I'm dying for something I don't know what;
I'm dying for something that kills me.

A part of myself but never on the surface,
I try to suppress it but can't hide it from my eyes.
The fire that burns like hell,
The threat that spells suicide.
I stand feeling the burn within,
That I set upon myself,
That I try to extinguish myself.
The darkest secrets only I know,
And a friend of mine I trusted too well.

When you can see the end of the road,
But the hands you carry remain empty;
Your shoulders weary of the load you bear,
The yoke of your deeds, the curse on your name.

In fear of the shadows surrounding you,
But a hope that whispers, "Carry on";
To leave the familiar behind,
To step into the unknown, into faith.

When you find the devil that shatters you,
In the mirror every morning, haunting you;
When your very being, the one you know so well,
Is the nightmare you live each day.