The pains of seventeen.

How is it just, to beg and to plead,

To crawl and scratch and bleed,

Just for the silly chance of being heard.

Did whatever god, have it written in stone,

That due to my illness I’d scare myself into being alone.

Do the people who say they love me lie

Or is my intuition too accepting and too desperate to do anything but cry.

To be loved is to be human so why do I feel so strange.

Why does all my love come from exchange.

Oh to be normal.