You say you apologize for the treatment I’ve been given,

but the real reason you do is the fact that you’re afraid it’s not enough

to cover up the tracks of wickedness in your heart.

Like the words “I’m sorry” are enough to keep me from getting treated rough.

I know, however, that I’m just another blade of grass in the path.

I’m just another needle in the haystack, beside the barn of commoners.

I’m just another person in a world of eight billion, just another person.

I’m the odd one out, though, and I’m afraid I’m not others.

I’m a freaking psychopath with little to no friends.

They say community is worth it, then how come they won’t provide it?

I’ve been thinking some people aren’t good friends,

but I seem to be acting like a victimized hypocrite.

I can give myself the world,

and pay for my own food.

I can be my own king,

and define my own mood.

I believed I was worthy of my place on this podium,

but I’ve come to realize again and again that it’s a silly way for my mind to betray.

I’m not like them, with my stupidity disguised by glasses.

What I’ve learned is: I never belonged here anyway.