I don't rhyme, and I certainly don't reason. 

I don't like pasta or milk,

I don't want to hold your hand,

Or talk about feelings.

I am not pretty or ugly,

Or jealous or smart,

I don't have a million dollars,

And I don't want it. 

You tell me I'm this or that,

But I know myself well; 

I'm not. 

I'm not what you think I am.

I'm not what I want to be.

I'm not you.

I'm not even me. 

I don't know what I am. 

Will we ever?

Signed, Lilly