I want to make my own death
Because the death they wrote for me is the perfectly wrong ones
I want to write my own rhymes
Because the images they captured about me is of their favors
Can I ride for a college?
Can I read more books?
Because they only tell me the facts, no more gossips
They say I am selfish enough to hug books and more of the college time,
But they would not comment on how their fake stories about me become so true in the meeting up tables
On their lines, I would appear as the silent one
But they dismiss the fact that they keep me waiting the uncertain opportunities just to make me feel true to myself
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