Who writes all these unwritten rules?
Who whispers what's unspoken?
How do they all thrive
With their ears to ground?
They're out there waging wars with their eyes.
It's them who say so much with just a hand.
And here are we, bursting from the inside,
Grappling for words, smiles that say how we feel.
I stood outside, face pressed on the glass.
They let me in, drawing me, like a moth to flame.
The heat was suffocating, and I knew I couldn't stand it;
But as I flew free, I sensed it still was the death of me.
I need to feel like the creator of music did--
Thrill and depth and life all twirled up in rhapsody.
Because for him with melody and words locked inside,
He's fully able to set his soul free.
I won't and can't live in your hellish house.
I can't soar on notes lifted by wings.
Where and how can I live in between?
Where is the spot for me?