in southeast asia, a girl has to wake up in the dark and walk two miles to fetch two buckets of water from a well so she and her family can wash themselves that morning.
a boy in another city spends the night at a train station and waits on the the streets during traffic hours for a rich dude to pick him up and pay/feed him afterward.
and somewhere in a country whose name you can't pronounce, a mother wakes up to a bombshell and worries daily until her child gets home with all limbs still attached.
while here you are, in free america, surrounded by wealth and privileges you forget you have, swimming in self-pity. cause you're different and no one understands you and your emotional pain is too great. nothing rivals your personal problems cause you're so special. so you cut/starve/shoot yourself out of purely selfish reasons, and we're supposed to feel sorry for you.
you can't even define your feelings/life until that one pop song comes along. inspired, accompanied by too much leisure time, you start writing one poetry after another. to broadcast your misery, and to change the world's perspective. of you. you're proud of these because they express you. but they're ostentatious and of such depth that a one-year-old can't drown in it if he tried.
and when someone points that out, you've become another misunderstood artist. another reason to mourn, to find fellow misunderstood artists over the internet to commiserate. you're alone in this world, and no one understands you. no one can have a worse life than you.