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As you look around you,
Gazing on the people who call themselves "normal".
Is this how we have to act?
Or is it just a painted portrait of what we call reality?

Perfect faces, acts and charms.
All as delicate as the porcelaine dolls we are.
Can we really call ourselves perfect?
Or is it just to please the higher levels?

Look into the mirror.
What excactly do you see?
Maby a perfect reflection of a materialist.
Or possibly, the mirror will crack, obscuring the view.

How can we trust others with how they see us,
For no one knows if this is just a play,
And we are the puppets,
On the stage of what we call our existance.

Scrying into the future,
No one can do.
Trying to pry answers out of thin air,
Dragging them into our view.

But how can all the "normal" people say they are better than us?
The ones who are different, or unique.
The ones who have different views on our world, on reality.
The ones who really matter to how the river of life flows.

As you see the porcelain doll in the mirror.
So weak, unable to be different, unable to be it's self.
Let the mirror crack, broken, battered.
Open your shell and show the world who you really are.