THE RIGHT KIND OF WRONG

I live through my childhood,
By the hood of imaginary friends,
When friends played around the neighborhood,
I didn’t realized I was playing alone,
Yet I felt happy among the non-existed,
I thought I was special when exactly…
I was not special at all.

I was praised, I am confuse,
I was envied, I am clueless,
I was loved, I am misled,
I was needed, I am hopeless,
Yet I felt happy to find it all so amusing,
I thought I was special when exactly…
I was not meant to be special.

They call me a genius,
Yet my dear said with a stupidity,
They call me a philosopher,
Yet my mother said I’m saying nonsense,
They call me a breakthrough,
Yet my father hardly call my name,
Yet I felt happy to be quoted in so many ways,
I thought I was special when exactly…
I have no reason to be special.

In this brain of mine,
Lies a mind with a trigger,
A trigger that holds the sense of my body,
A trigger I wish is in my control but yet it is not,
Yet I felt happy when no such trigger existed,
I thought I was special when exactly…
I’ve triggered myself to be special.

But why am I not completely myself?
Am I mentally disturbed?
But why am I rationally involved?
Why am I always right in reasons?
Why I feel betrayed by my own brain?
Yet I feel happy when why is nothing but a question,
I thought I was special when exactly…
Why I thought I was special?

Let alone if you feel disturbed,
Yes I’m complicated…
Yes I’m unpredictable…
Yes I’m not suppose to be here.

Still I believe in Him,
Let Him one day explain,
For I am just another human He created,
I thought I was special when exactly…
He made me to be special.

That’s me,
The right kind of wrong.