There is nothing special, within these words I write.
I clear my mind, trying to see the light.

There is nothing special, I see in this broken heart,
Only the misunderstood soul, crumbling apart.

There is nothing special, about me these days.
Not even the song of misery, this broken soul plays.

There is nothing special, my life doth plea.
But the joy of happiness, and the will to be me.

The only thing special about me...

a Plea to attain,
a Longing for love,
an Adventure of a lifetime,
an Evening alone,
a Sensational joy,
that Eventually fades...

an Instant to be myself...

a Need to belong,
the Ecstasy to become,
an Entitlement to claim,
a Desire to be divine...

an Honor to be one,
an Existence of a new,
a Lust for solitude,
a Plan to escape...

What is this, you ask?
The only thing special about me...

Is Me.