No one knows what its like to be me, they interpret and
try to duplicate but its only one you see.
Life feels like a rejecter warehouse, an assembly line but once
passed down through the hands of many, you're still incomplete.
Fear and sorrow right outside my organ that's trying to spread what was given to me to others around. Many look upon it and smile but some see differently and frown.
Am I misunderstood because I was set apart or do I take things wayward with no cruel intentions in my heart?
I want to be more like Jesus but am I, in an effort to get closer, pushing others away? How can I learn to listen, to be cool, and to pray?
What was I placed here for, this I want to know? My friends are in a drought, a shortage, they tend to come and go.
There are so many questions that I may never know the answer to…
So how can I know which way is better or which way to go?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.