For the sake of the lost,
Now wandering in the maze
Of no perceivable, precious, lovely escape
For those who can't bear
Even the confounded notion
Of life ahead or perhaps this moment,
I write for those
True to this life
While undesired, ridiculed, lashed, and despised
I'm writing for those
From conception, beyond demise.

For the pleasure of no one,
I will conform
For the sake of the scapegoats,
Broken and torn
The lost and forgotten
For I was not born
To mend the ailed and tend to the dying
I'm inconceivably selfish
For that I am sure
But of none else am I so certain
It is me who must search