I'm no perfect saintly man.
I'm nothing like a Peter Pan.
And my mistakes I oft take out,
By sending you a wicked shout.

And when I've really f'd things up
I spew my venom in your cup.
With wicked silence, evil eyes
I work to hide where true blame lies.

But no full-on self-delusion,
No raged satanic collusion,
Will hide the fact that it's my fault
That I'm not proud of me.

I fail to be the best of me,
That image which I'm built to be -
So on I jump that train of blame,
A ride designed to stop tear's reign.

I know there's hope, I know my heart's
Not wicked, just tearing apart,
Not angry, growing passion's fire
For those whose love I most desire.