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.