Little Old Me
Stranger's all around me.
Faces I should recognize but don't.
They act like they understand me,
but how can they, when I barely know myself?
They think they know what's best for me,
so I just follow along with their orders.
They want me to share my problems, to confide in them.
But how can I when they choose not to listen.
They cast aside my pleading looks,
my silent cries for help,
they cast aside who I am.
Don't they know that no ones perfect?
Don't they know that everyone has a dark side?
I know they have problems,
why else would I ask about them?
When they start to talk, they forget.
About my problems,
about my feelings,
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