I wish I could be more social, if only,
I just could find the right things to say,
To others, talking is as natural as play,
But I'm not like others and I don't share my thoughts well,
My face grows hot and my tongue swells,
Aw hell, why am I so alone?
I never have a reason to look at my phone,
Except when I'm trying to dodge a conversation,
Or look like I'm in deep concentration,
On a text that doesn't exist,
As much I hate this, I don't fix it,
I feel like Tyler, a walking paradox,
No I'm not, I'm mixed up, no perfect pair of socks,
Science says there's a name for a person like me,
And it is a person that's less likely,
To be outgoing and flowing with what's cool,
But I reject that life, because I'm not a tool,
Science also says people like me are the ones that got the keys,
The ones willing to work and write and read,
To me it's just feed to keep me sedated,
To mask the fact I'm not loved, just hated,
I don't know the root of my problems,
So therefore all I know is I must solve them,
Looking at the effort I must give to change,
I know it's not as bad as to forever live deranged.