A flower will grow tall, whither and die
A light feathered bird will not forever fly
A body will be enveloped in dirt
It will decay and many will be hurt
Those people will pass too
Death is something we all run into
The stars will explode
Or whatever they do in the end, implode?

I like to sit in an unlit room,
Looking out at the ominous rain filled sky.
I long to go outside,
And feel the tear drops of the clouds.
For I know what it's like.
To be unable to stop tears from falling.
I wish I could comfort them,
Those bereaved morbid clouds.

So you know that strange feeling you get, the one where it feels like you're different from them.
You're a green tulip in a field of yellows, but they all see in black and white.
You decide to go with it, because Different is bad. Same is good.
Same, they say, is what gets you somewhere.
Same, I think, isn't fun at all.
It's gray, dull, a ticking clock in an empty room. Time wastes away, and nothing is done.
Same stands over you with a bat, and 'plonk' when Different tries to talk to you. Same wears the same suit and tie every day, never changing.
Different likes colors and scarves and sandals and beanies and fur coats and tattoos.
Same likes to talk about the weather, while Different doesn't talk; she was interrupted too much.
Different likes to sit down and think, and think, and dream. She sits longing for more Different's, the ones with fur coats and tattoos. Same chases them down with his bat and 'plonk' they become like Same, with suits and bats.