This thing here is wearing thin.

Sometimes I draw things no one else gets to see.

In the dark of night when everyone else sleeps, I go for walks through my neighborhood.

I make up songs and write them down lots of times, but never share them with anyone.

I pick up the pennies I find on the ground not because they're lucky, but because when I was little my mom used to say they were a gift from my Nanna in Heaven; while the belief is gone, the habit remains.

A lot of my words are stolen from books or songs.

I've never been afraid of dying (and I'm positive that isn't very normal).

Lots of my talents have wasted away to nothing and now I don't have them anymore.

I'm not a proper human being.

This is me writing down these words because they aren't good enough but they're all I have right now.