Don't call me "punk", don't call me "druggy"
And don't you care call me by my home town.
That's where I've been not who I am
And if that is your impression of me
you obviously don't know who I am.
But that doesn't surprise me
No one in this town ever really knew
Next door doesn't even grasp it
So let me explain it to you
Though I am always myself I am not always the same person.
When I'm with you I'm the person you want
When I'm with them...
But it always seems I'm a little too much for you
And not enough for them
But unlike you
They don't seem to mind
They don't criticize my every move
And they love me without putting me down
Or trying to put me into a box where I don't fit
And
I'm sorry
But I just don't fit in your box.
I'm not made of clay that you can bend into a desired shape
And my heart doesn't have strings attached that you can pull like a puppet
And make me dance
You cant control who I am
Who I was
Who I will be
I can't even do that.
So you can put on your show
And make everyone believe you are something you are not
But I know who you are
Because I don't try to put you into any boxes
Not even the one that you are bending over backwards to get into.
Am I the only one who finds it liberating to breathe in the fresh air
Instead of being confined to breathing the same air
As you are passed on from one box to another
Until the only one left is a pine box that will hold you forever
Excuse me if that is the only box I ever want to fit into
The shapes I make are way too elaborate to be labeled as "punk" or "druggy"
And especially not by my hometown.