I can't come to terms with the idea,
that I will never be what the world wants me to be,
I'm a writer.
Writers become english teachers.
Not business men, not scientists.
Certainly not successful,
Not by everyone else's standards at least.
But maybe I love the way the leaves fall and the moon shines,
Just a little too much,
and maybe a get lost in the dazzle of your eyes,
Just a little too much
Maybe I can't stand being normal,
Just a little too much,
and maybe,
Just maybe,
It's me who needs to change,
not the world.
Because,
If the leaves stop falling,
the moon stops shining,
and your eyes stop dazzling,
I guess I am just,
*normal