Young scars of blood can't be seen by our makers;
They're invisible to the naked eye
Though, it's expected for them to know it and see it.
Every invention has it's own manual made by it's producers
They could read inbetween the lines, but there's never anything there.
Who's really to blame for this not-so-funny, silly little game;
Is it the ones who feel the pain,
or those who don't even realize it's even there.
We're all to blame, really.
I think that's only fair.