They see my face but not my soul.
The way I dress, not the way I talk
They don't see the way that I am me
Or how you are you
No one cares who you are
They care about the way
You would make them look
America is blind
To who I really am
America is blind
To who you really are
What if we show
Our true colors
If even for a day
They see who we are
What if we stop
Trying to fit in
And be the black sheep
In a world full of white ones
YOU ARE READING
Love letters, Hurt poems
Ngẫu nhiênCredit for my amazing cover to @SLKeys Ok so dont kill me. This book is kinda bipolar. I write when I am sad, feeling lose, lusting, in love, being happy, nervous, or basically any other feeling.
