People ask me what I’m thinking,
and when I say I don’t know,
they think it’s a lie,
but I really don’t know what I’m thinking all the time.

People ask me what I’m feeling,
and when I say I don’t know,
they think I’m not sharing with them;
my therapist calls it a problem.

People ask me how I could possibly not be wearing a sweater,
and when I tell them I’m not affected by the weather,
they think I’m crazy,
but I think they’re just babies.

People ask me why I’m so smart,
and when I say I’m not,
they think I have poor confidence,
and I think that’s a great guess.

People ask me why I say I’m sorry,
and when I say it’s something I really mean,
they think that it’s strange,
that I feel such things.

People ask me why I talk weird,
and when I say I don’t know why they jeered,
they say I’d just proven their argument,
but I still don’t know exactly what they meant.

People always ask me questions.
I don’t know why.
I guess they want to know more about me.
Really there’s nothing to tell.
It’s not as if I’m fascinating or anything.
I’m really just a kid.

Except people don’t see me that way.
To them I’m some sort of mystery.
But they say I can’t be solved.
So what’s the point of me?