How much oversight in the how many eyes
That watch over me yet cannot spot the lies
The things hidden, these make-believe
bonds, the corruption, the whole
Parts of me, inside of it all there’s a hole
That all those sharp and piercing knives
Will never be able to see.
I am
Not normal.
They watch, but they don’t look.
They rectify, but don’t analyze.
Always staying in the corner,
Sometimes peaking out
Just to say you’re there, what
Do you think you’re even doing?
You didn’t see
Anything of me.
The person you all “know”
Is nothing but a phantom.
Not one made of death,
Evil and ominous schemes,
But of a small, pathetic reality
Which again and again
Keeps failing to believe itself.
This little phantom right here,
They just decided that
They want to become
a real person.
And they’re sorry for disappearing
From everyone’s sight.
But don’t worry. I’m still here.
