Tell me I'm not the only one who's a goner,
with controversial thoughts of the presence of
pure goodness within the most contemptible.

Tell me it doesn't seem so preposterous
that the greatest revolters could,
in some way, feel remorse.

Tell me that there at least might be
a glint of goodness in people
if you attempted to flounder them back and forth in your mind,
until everything repugnant, artless, and coarse fell away.

Tell me that maybe then a constellation may form
at the buttom of the pit,
a rare element ambushed in exposed bedrock,
that will be washed out and elevated by a fiery storm upstream.

The walls that I've made,
From the buttom to the top,
make it sturdy and tough,
so that no one can hurt me,
so that It'll protect me,
from the people that is not,
as nice as I thought,

But got only destroyed
to the brown eye'd boy
who I thought loved me whole
but only hurt me just like them all.