Every day I awake in my bed,
High-strung, restless, and stressed to no end,
I think of being a clone, identical to all, and I'd rather be dead.
Without my persona, all's left is to follow a trend.
Meaningless, disturbing, such a frightful deed
One that can only perturb me with little intent.
Those people scare me, thinking they're "born to lead"
When, really, they cause such havoc, unable to repent.
The pride of those, with glossy hair and designer clothes
A sorrowful sight that leaves me with dread,
It scares me, the revulsion of those
Which is another reason I'd rather be dead
Than be compared to the whole world.
In comparison to the popular crowd,
I'm an oddity, an outcast to behold
But I prefer to be an outcast, a freak
Than to be the same.
By comparison, I'm me.
