I argue with my friends inside my head

In hopes they’ll bring me peace when I am dead.

The trophies they don’t have don’t make me more –

We describe our worth based on the poor.

I’ve come to terms with who I cannot be:

Certain things will always escape me.

Certain moods weren’t made for me to feel,

And that’s what’s best because what’s real is real.

I miss the life I wish I’ll someday live.

I lie I’ve given more than I can give.

We sacrifice ourselves to gather wealth

To spend on things that help us find ourselves.

No one wants to live the same for long,

No one doesn’t want to feel a song,

But we still train our hearts and minds to close.

Communication isn’t what we chose.

The world is ours. And that means what it means.

The world is built because its people dream.

Our dreams can remind us what we forgot:

Reality is formed by what it’s not.