i'm not very Special anyway
The ideal life is one to be care and loved;
but when one is neither it can be marked as shunned.
i wonder what makes me.
hopes can die and hearts might fade;
but i will always disappear into the glade.
mournful laments are my lullabys;
but as I sit here and cry,
i wonder what makes me.
the tongue of the devil is soothing, as I've seen its work before;
people shatter behind me while they slam the ten ton door.
lonesome, unimportant, meaningless.
so many words to prove the worthlessness of an individual mindless,
i wonder what makes me.
my body cringes, shaking in its cold fear,
as I sit here and vanish, mimicking a delicate tear,
i wonder what makes me.
screams echo my thoughts as I run to my music,
the rush stops as I hear the click,
what makes me Special.
lost in fantasy for much too long,
i turn my head to face the final song,
and i realize something.
i'm not very Special.
and that's okay to me.