This poem is for the outcasts,
The ones whose minds are in the past.
The ones who cries themselves to sleep,
And can't concentrate on countin sheep,
Cause they can't help but feelin,
That all their hope is peelin,
Cause nobody is there,
And bit by bit they will tear,
Till that one person shows up,
Who won't just tell them to shut up,
And becomes a real friend,
One who they can depend,
With all their thoughts,
This kind of friendship isn't bought.
Honestly it's hard to find,
Someone who is genuinely kind.
This poem is for the outcasts,
The ones whose minds are in the past.
The ones who don't know what to do,
Cause they are even judged by the size of their shoe.
They seem to have no one,
But on the inside they have a ton,
Of laughter and love,
They are above everyone.
It may seem dumb,
But feelings, yeah they got some,
And they know more,
Because they've been hurt to the core.
They know what to avoid; what to skip,
They just don't know true friendship.
And in truth,
We all have proof,
Of being an outcast in someway,
At least for one day,
We need to stick together,
Us outcasts; forever
Then maybe the world would be a better place,
When we always wear a smile on our face.