Something

I'm not quite sure how I got here or why,
And I'm still a little shaky on what I am.
You can't convince me that math has a purpose no matter how hard you try,
and I'll never know what I was thinking when I thought gauchos were cool.
I don't know why bad things happen to good people and I know that's a cliche,
but then again, I don't know why you care.
Airplanes make me nervous.
But airports make me happy,
because all of the tight embraces and goodbye kisses and "see you soons" lingering in the air,
no destination in mind,
It almost makes me feel loved, too.
I've kissed a few boys but never one I truly "liked",
and I'm not foolish enough to believe that will happen anytime soon.
Love is for the grown-ups,
and according to society, I don't know shit.
So in the meantime, I'll be right here.
Waiting.
Embarrassment is a good friend of mine,
We meet up throughout the day (he's really clingy),
I blush
And blush
Every time he comes around,
He's a real charmer, that guy.
I'm not quite sure what all of this means,
But I'm sure it means something.
That I'm something.

I know my heart beats,
Sometimes fast and sometimes slow,
And sometimes it feels like it's about to burst out of my chest.
Blood runs through my veins,
Gallons and gallons of the stuff,
Enough to fill an ocean or lake or a pond, at the very least,
Maybe not but how can I be so sure?
For some reason salt water comes out of my eyes,
When I laugh too hard,
When a bug flies into them,
When I cry.
I think that one's that worst.
I cry in the Titanic every time Jack dies. (Spoiler alert, I guess.)
I cry when I'm angry, no matter how hard I try not to.
I cry....
I think you get the picture.
"Cry me a river," a wise man once said,
Easily.
I don't know if these tears make me less or make me more or make me anything at all.
But still, I'm sure this means something,
That I'm something.

I know there's creatures like me, everywhere I go,
Same features, same make,
But fundamentally different in every way.
If I'm a Chevy Malibu, then she's a Camaro,
And he's one of those clunkers that's not worth the hundred bucks you spent on it.
She left her morals at the door of her childhood home
And he likes to drink 'til his blood turns to alcohol
And failure haunts me like that funnel cake I ate before riding the tilt-a-whirl.
Words affect me more than they should,
You'll find the bad ones in the back of my mind, replaying over and over and over again.
Just follow insecurity and take a left turn at hurt, you can't miss them.
But he doesn't seem to give a damn.
She lived in a little yellow house with a white picket fence and grew up to go to a great school,
Get a great job,
Have a great life,
He lived in a constant nightmare with rough hands and sharp words and grew up to live on the streets,
Make some bad decisions,
It cost him his life.
What makes him less than her, than me?
We are the same,
Not at all,
But still, I'm sure this means something,
That we're something.

I know there's a grand architect somewhere,
And I'd really appreciate it if he could stand up.
I have a lot of questions for you, pal.
Who invented the knock-knock joke?
Why are croissants so flaky?
Is Tupac really dead?
Do dogs go to heaven?
What am I doing here?
Why are we here?
And why won't you answer me??
So I'm not sure if this is a cry or a scream or a prayer or just words on a paper,
And I'm still not quite sure what I'm even trying to ask you here.
But I'm sure it means something.
I am something.
You are something.
We are something.

Just tell us what.