Is there something wrong with me? I think there might just have to be.
To feel the lack of all those eyes, to be a stack of weathered sighs.
Maybe I wonder there and back, an empty sack of heart attacks
And this is not prone to be fun… no wonder I lack anyone.
Yet when I walk I do go straight, and when I talk I try to state:
I am just me I mean to be nothing more than my fantasy.
The clothes I wear they do not care for what’s beside or how the hair
Doth fold and fumble on the head, I merely steer them to your stead.
I’m innocence exuding light that leads my shadow to a fight
With the one who casts it on the ground that keeps it down upon
The beaten, bent, and broken tracks of feet and cars and feral packs
Of hunting wolves and men at arms who seek to slay in sulting swarms.
A little one, so quick to run towards the dark to keep the sun
Off of this back that cannot bear to hold the weight of someones care.
I call you here, you do not hear
I grab a hold, but never told
What’s wrong with me? I do so plea
I need to know what it may be.