Weirdly I have often wondered,
When I let grief steal my thunder,
When the sand surrounds my head,
When I think, “I should be dead,”

Who will miss me? Who will care?
Do they even know I’m there?
A question that will not be voiced–
Those who think it need a hoist,

We are not weak, we are not strong,
Like you we’re trying to get along,
To live, to love, to like, to make it,
But sometimes, god, we just can’t take it.

And those of us who can hide, do,
Sometimes we disappear from view.
Don’t hate us then, don’t hate us now,
We’ll come back once we relearn how.

And those of us who never learn,
Your memories fond, you mustn’t spurn.
It’s not our fault the world turns on greed:
Not our fault, our endless need.

Not our fault, the hurt and pain,
That darken every glad refrain,
It wasn’t we who chose to feel
The torture of wounds we cannot heal.

So if one of us re-joins the fray,
Be joyful we lived for one more day.
Help us fight, see how we strive;
Just help us, please, to stay alive.