Impulse write; date is unsure of, seeing as I didn't record it. But it's somewhere in the year 2004. Preferably January to February.

Nobody gets me
They just try to make me

Those that I love
Those whom I drop the most hints
They take one look and say
"Good job, we understand"
And leave me to rot
In pale complexion
Leave me to stew
In their lies

I am a complicated being
Just like any other
Lost yet hopeful
That one day I'll be found

But that day has yet to come
And so I sit alone
In a crowded room
Yet so very alone

I drop hints here and there
Telling those I care
That I want them to understand
What I feel
Who I am

Yet they leave me to stew
In my own little room
Poking and prodding
Saying they're trying to understand

But they don't understand
And I fear they never will
`Cause they only try to see
What they think I feel
Only try to make me
Who they want me to be

I tell them my hobbies
Things I hope to actually do
Things I want to achieve
What I want to be me

And those hobbies are more
Than just hobbies you see
They are things that might
One day be me;
Things that I might
One day achieve

But they scoff at them
Call them just hobbies
Tell me what I should be
What to believe
Where I will go
When I will be grown
Andy why I feel like they think I do inside

But as I have said
And always will
They don't know me
And probably never will

So I'll always be lost
Waiting in vain
Until someone breaks the barrier
And I'm found again