It is bitter, or heavyhearted some would even say
She's botteling up all these feelings for someone, for an idea but this time's different she's told herself
Waiting for the earth to make it's turn again, so she can receive a simple shot of nothing, sent to everyone
As she described the appealing face to all her friends, who simply nod along  
Maybe one day, she will collect the things she's giving now, but this is not that person
And sadly enough she knows, but still hopes

The blanket does not hold a child,
But a matured pattern
Of further possibilities.
It’s wool worn, patched,
Ripples and changes.

Now the blanket blows out the stars,
The wind rushes to echo,
To send a shiver of laughter.
Each fiber breathes, shimmers,
Catching the loose sound.

Fresh dew fills the blankets warm hair,
So blonde it shines through water,
To reflect lights scattered above.
Laughter shatters, fractures,
Skipping to the sky,

Maybe I'm not a good writer
Maybe I'm not that talented
Maybe there's no one who's interested in these combined phrases
Maybe it's only me I can become
But lemme ask you this, people
What does really matter?
Does it really matter to be good af?
Does it really matter to be **** talented?
Does the number of supporters really matter?
Listen to me, does it really matter?
Or does it only really matter to you?
Yes, probably the latter is true
Because you, society, requires everyone to please you
You requires everyone to be the way it satisfies you
You stole everybody's happiness
You stole everybody's reality
You stole everybody's identity
Laugh out loud for the irony
Because that "everybody" is the same society itself
Listen to me, can you please stop being that society to someone
To someone like me...

You scream, you scream
But I don’t ‘cause I don’t really care anymore

So I just sit here with my thumb in my mouth
Wondering what you make all this noise for