Ones Who Care

I walk into the room and all eyes fall on me,
My thoughts pound in my ear,
My first reaction is to run,
I straighten my back and square my shoulders,
And walk as steadily as I can to my chair,
And soon the mumbling in the room returns:
The topic (as I expected) is me.

They ask who I am, and who I think I am,
With those big chained pants, and wavy braided hair.
They ask if I'm tryin to be white,
If I am gothic? A satanist? A punk? What am I?

They've never been shy about watching me,
They want me to realize why they stare.
I hear them start to call my name
And ask me questions about my appearence.

I don't respond, I keep quiet and hang my head,
Eyes closed.
I know they're only trying to play me,
Like I'm a new game for one and all to enjoy.

They never ask me how hard it was for me to work
To buy these amazingly cool pants last year,
Or how many hours I spent braiding my hair,
Cuz I couldn't afford to get it done, like they all can.

So I look around the room,
And find that one group,
That group with a smile of acceptance on their face,
With a general look of understanding:
Fore they too are being questioned about who they are.

So, I hang out with the "freaks," the losers," the weirdos,"
Cuz they are the only ones who understand,
They are the only ones who care,
They know I don't do this for the attention,
I do this cuz this is who I am.