I can’t turn back time or extinguish the pain
I can’t prevent tragedy striking again
I can’t promise you life will always be kind
I can’t provide sight for those who are blind

 

I can’t ride a camel or play the pan flute
You could hand me a gun but I can’t make it shoot
For I can’t take a life, couldn’t live with the guilt
I can’t destroy something that someone else built

 

I can’t take a bath in water this shallow
I can’t forge a path through a walkway this narrow
I can’t take back all of the things I have said
I can’t perform magic to bring back the dead

 

I can’t fall asleep after all that I’ve seen
I can’t guarantee that I’ll wake from this dream
I can’t walk on water or swim on dry land
I can’t run away when entrenched in quicksand

 

 

 

I can halt the slide though, can wrench myself free
I can become who I’m intended to be
I can rise above like a Phoenix from flames
I can still kick ass and I can still take names

 

I can spread the love and I can extend kindness
In some respects that, in itself, cures the blindness
I can be your rock, if such you allow
I can defy odds and honor my vow

 

I can walk on water, at least in my heart
I can save my life by existing through art
I can make you smile and I can make you fear
I can raise my voice and I can raise a tear

 

You can feel my touch, you can see my light
You can feel secure as I squeeze your soul tight
You can trust your gut, let go, take that leap
As I can break your fall, no matter how steep