Who lies there, unseen, in the darkness of day,

While soaking in silence, saying all is "okay?"

Who mumbles their words to the worms and the birds

Since their own kind just bellows and screeches and brays?

     ...not a stranger, no, but someone much closer--

     A cynical brat and an pity composer.

     A person who thinks and who drinks from despair

     And has the finesse of a cumbersome grocer.

In fact, it is me who suffers this fashion

Of ignorant malice and withered compassion.

I smile, withholding, while secretly folding

My hands, to conceal that they're shaky and ashen.

   
     My pain I conceal, for my family, peeking,

     Must never discover me silently shrieking.

     For if they find out, the true "me" will shout,

     And they'll treat me like trash that is slimy and reeking. 

Yes--I am different from all of my kin,

Who never disguise what is hidden within.

I want what they don't, and do what they won't,

As they flip up their lips and commit their own sins.

     
     The true me cries out (for the love of each other)

     While everyone turns and attacks their own brother!

     So where can I be the unaltered, true me

     Where I don't live in fear of my father and mother?