You tell me that I am not broken
Am I really not broken, but i feel like i am
That if i was,broken things can be fixed
But what if this broken mind can't be fixed
Even if this broken mind could be fixed, it is still worthy of love?
You tell me that broken things can be beautiful and loved
Does this mean it wasn't before?
Why does it have to break in order to be beautiful?
Why must people break in order to be perfect
To fit the standards of others?
Why must we change to fit society, why must we?
Why did I have to hide for so long?
I want to scream out for help
But i don't know how
I want to share my thoughts
But it's hard to speak them
As if i am afriad of the outcome
To speak memories long since hidden
Afriad of what my minds hold inside
Afriad of myself
