I already know I'm no longer the ten,
One at the top of his game, one of those coveted men,

Men who the world bends over backwards to please,
Trapped in my slightest smile or in a harmless tease,

If you're out to pull me from rose-colored visions,
To remind me of reality's distraught conditions,

Just remember that I've known this truth through the ages,
And it isn't your place to remind the captive of cages,

Don't scrape the plaster or paper of the layers of paint,
They cover the burns of a martyr and saint,

The stigmata bleeding is to evoke a remembrance,
That you won't ever worship me in the smallest of semblance,

And if within my eyes you cannot find your God,
I could always cut them out; replace them with a better-suited mod