I don’t know what it is to be ideal,

I hate the world for being so organized,

I see people around me,

Tied and dried,

I have no fucking idea,

how do they survive…

I agree to be random,

Randomly generated pulp,

Someone with a soul,

Which nobody gives a shit…

Even randomness has a pattern,

It wants to found,

Loved and cuddled,

To get lost in the crowd…

But no, you have no fucking idea,

You’ll just be an outlier,

An insignificant finding,

To be thrown away,

So you never find the way out…