Acid streaks, leave reminders of their bitter taste If all are born as angels then I must be a waste So many seen so perfect, yet some are just pure rejects So if this mirror does not shatter from my fist, it will break from what it reflects. Help this mind be put to rest, help all problems be put at ease And if there is something wrong, help me cure this sick disease. Is it weight, or appearance? Maybe something new? Am I really just that aweful, can it all be true?