You say that I must have something wrong with me. That the patches on my clothes can barely cover the aberration they contain The higher my hair goes the further I am from sanity and the louder I play my music the more drugged out I must be.
You say that I’m an idiot That I’m stupid to stay out until the crack of dawn every weekend listening to the music that I love with the people that care about me For running in circles and choking on the kicked up dirt and the cigarette smoke that engrains itself in my clothing for weeks and for loving every second of it.
You say that I am a freak. That Im a danger to society and shouldn’t be allowed to roam free on the streets of the only city I’ve ever known That my friends and I are the undesirable scum of this earth, a disgrace to human kind That we all should just go die and do the rest of you a favor
You say that I’m sick But I don’t think you understand just how sick and tired I really am of being the scapegoat for every criminal, every bully, every mistake because of the way I dress
You say that I’m your reason for having no hope for my generation but I say that this. . . This community, this music, this feeling of acceptance? This is all I have.