I sit alone outside, on the covered picnic table area, though it is rainy and cold, and this old hoodie is not enough to keep out the damp and chill
I can be alone with my music, melancholy and reverb that can soothe away my troubled thoughts.
I can be alone, and not have to understand their signs and words that have no meaning, their smiles that hid venom dripping fangs
Oh! And they think ME the changeling child!
The music is real, when nothing else. It can make me feel, when nothing else does.
A sonic blanket wrapping me up like a cosseted child, so I can be still.
This music is real.
People hide their intentions, so easily. Can make you believe in their kindness.
And then will do freely admit to treachery, if you're not the one they're hurting. So easily speak of someone they don't want around, though keep extending their hand to them.
Do they really think I can't put it all together? That I can't their kindness is counterfeit, and tin?
I listen to the music, louder than the rain and the wind, and the doubts and fears I am filled with, and it keeps my heart warm in a cold world.
The cold and the damp is kinder, never pretending to be anything that it's not.
The worst coldness come from humans' false warmth, darkasks, and endless lies.
Oh! And they call ME the changeling child!
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