You're taught the world by rote,
And others learn your life through portraits.
You're still in the highchair approaching your prime,
You're told to keep grounded because the world is a rough climb.

It won't help to explain
That you can handle the pain
It's like there's never enough roots
To soak up the rain.

I would never be me
If it were up to my choice
But at my time of conception
I was lacking a voice.

Feel at home in the waste
Of the most tasteless race
The world may see you as faded
But you truly have grace.