My lungs keep me breathing, but am I really alive?
24 years later, and I'm just living to survive.
Because cowards end their life,
With a gun, pills or a knife.
And none of those are the answer I'm trying to derive.

My life has been flipped, in every possible sense.
I fear I'm becoming always mentioned in the past tense.
I work at night and sleep all day,
No one to hear what I've got to say,
I'm staying afloat, but at what expense?

These are my feeble cries to a unconcerned crowd.
I continue to chant "when will I make you proud?"
Because the people don't care
All they will do is stare.
As I cause a scene with a voice that echoes loud.