We're called survivors,
Told we're heros,
So strong,
Yet treated as fragile glass.
Why?
Because we're the people at the back of the class.
We're those people that get thrown nervous glances,
As if we're a grenade about to blow.
We're those people who wear our feelings and hard times on the outside,
Yet we don't suffer as much as it seems.

These feelings,
These pains,
These tragic affairs,
They're not ours,
They're yours.

We're the people at the back of the class,
The ones who feel with our hearts instead of our hands,
The ones who shove aside our hurt to pull you from yours.

We take our proverbial wings and glue them to your back,
Keeping you afloat.
We fall further and further from Heaven,
Giving you your glimpses.

We crack and we bleed,
But we put on a good front,
We pull ourselves together and offer you a smile.

We are the broken glass,
The bombs that have blown,
And those glances thrown back in your face.
Avert your eyes like always,
Ignore those false heros,
Don't acknwledge these hands,
These hearts who ache for you.
After all,
We're just some kids in the back of the class.