I do not know the feeling of popularity,
nor the feeling of being hated by all.

In order to dance to the beat of your drum
You must have a sense of rhythm.
There's no use in hitting the beats on occasion
Because you'll end up sounding the way everyone does.
Just like them.

In order to wear the clothes no one does
You must have a sense of style.
There's no use in clashing your patterns or prints
Because that's a fashion and so in the end you'll be
Just like them.

But there are only so many beats you can play
Only so many colours in the rainbow
There's no possible way you can be so different
Because you are doing the very thing that makes you the same.
You're trying so hard to be the person no one understands
The person who's a mystery, who's just so different
That in doing it you've only become
Just like them.

She'd started watching 1950's informational videos.
You were accepted for being outside the box
And she was everything except in it.
Class president kids used to be reviled
Elections were exciting, polls came in,
And now... now what was it?
Something she should be ashamed of.
Because she cannot dance in a short skirt in front of a crowd
But instead because she plays the music
For the girls in the short skirts
Band uniforms like shells she can hide inside
Because while it's not something the other kids love,
It's what she loves.
Tennis dresses like skin without makeup
Student council shirts that finally fit,
That she feels like she can finally fill out
Unlike the jeans that she can't.
Golf jersey tossed aside, brushes and pencils picked up
Volunteer work piled in
Piling into the plays and new experiences
And acceleration, constant growing,
Growing out of shells that she used to love
And gaining skins that she loves even more
Looking back and seeing that the girls in short skirts
On the sidelines, on the gym floors,
Had not shed anything yet
Had not grown.
They were walking, she was running
Toward the end of high school, toward a goal,
To see how high in the sky they could get,
To see how high in confidence and compassion she could reach
They shed clothes, she shed skin and shells
They were permanent, fearing change
She was evolving, embracing it.

Well who doesn't feel lonely somedays?
Oh,
That's right.
Everyone.
Don't you ever think
This popularity contest
Isn't pushing my buttons.
Push the button that says
Accept
And I won't be insecure.
Or,
Push the button that says
Delete,
But it's been pushed so many times
By so many individuals.
To the few
Who are a part of my life
Congratulations.
Looks like you
Have pushed
The Start button.
So we start a friendship,
And begin a family.
The popularity button
Is one that is not pushed.
But it won't last.
It can break my machine.
So why bother?

It's like quicksand in the desert:
Some relish the attention,
The thrill,
Daring to get closer,
Finding a way to prove themselves,
But finding themselves in a place
They would never want to be.

It ***** them closer,
Pulling them away from the safe ground.
They forget who they once were,
Only living up to what others expect from them--
Want from them.

Plaguing every living heart and
Preventing pure friendships from being made.