Barely talking, they wait for something
To finally change.
They raise their hands to the paper
And make their own silent stand.
As the words flow from the soul
And their struggle starts to form.
They once tried to talk,
But they were knocked down from the start.
So now they create a story from nothing,
From a message hidden in the morning,
And the slight ripple on a lake.
These are the stories of those who died in the night
And cried themselves to “sleep tight.”
The ones who never had somebody
And were always the freaks and nobody’s.
The ones who were avoided,
And were too exhausted to keep up the fight.
Yet they love so much.
The ones who have been the victims of hate
While some supposed they had met their fate.
The freaks want it known that they are proud
Of where they came from,
And how far they have come.
The slick and awful people have lost unknowingly.
What matters is that they are now free
To write a next story, the one of their lives.