Am I just a paper in the wind, waiting to be caught; picked up by a stranger?
Words to be etched on me.
I've been erased, cumbled, and used for no purpose.
I've been torn from the book of life to tell the story to someone new.
I've been ripped to pieces for the world to put together.
and somehow, I'm still here.
I've been stepped on and stained with black.
I've been confused by lines and wrinkles.
I've been left to construct someone's idea into a change.
and somehow, I'm still here.
Waiting for the words of a stranger to be etched on me,
all you need is a pen.
Everyone is strange, that's what makes us strangers.
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