Don't tell me you know who he really is in all his madness
until you know the ways he tried to **** his sadness.
Until you know of the blood running like a river down his thighs
from the gaping wounds he makes all the while he cries,
until you see the crimson waterfalls rushing from the veins on his wrist,
as he tries his best to succeed at ceasing to exist.

Don't tell me you know him until you know how he spends every waking moment at war with his mind,
guided by the black dog incredibly prominent; the same darkness that has him so confined.
Until you're aware of his tendency to seek amnesia at the bottom of endless bottles of whiskey,
until you understand that this crisis leads his behaviour to become most risky.

Don't tell me you know him until you know of how he starves himself and strives for perfection,
because tormentors told him that he's not good, thin or man enough - so it's all he sees in his reflection.
Until you've seen him punching holes in the walls wanting the pain to cease,
until you've seen him popping hundreds of pills hoping from an escape from the world, looking for release.

So don't tell me you know who he really is in all his madness
until you know the ways he tried to **** his sadness,
you only see the parts he wants you to see -
you cannot understand he's broken into merely debris.