The orbs are comfortable
To lay within the glow
Rounding up and over the moon lit by
Nightly prayers from the children and the whispering ambitions of the aged

Will we ever fit in
Well, fit out of the confinements we dredge to make it all okay when the family cries
Each of us have all been strapped with Velcro from our Day 1 to fit standards
But does it mean anything..
For if we fall short, it hurts more than falling long
Why must we hurt and bleed and scrape against the bottom when we're trying our hardest

Age holds no value
When the interlacing branches of the forest
All look the same
Because we cannot dare differentiate ourselves
What it is to live "normal" and society's "regular"

Maybe we hide ourselves
under scars and lyrics, between role lists and bus seats
Maybe our orbs are colored neon, or maybe a lingering Oregon grey

So maybe, clicks and groups and minorities
And maybe even the "freaks"
Are all synonyms for "normal" and "regular"

So please, these orbs have become comfortable
Don't hang your head and hide one minute more.