feeling rather selfish as you walk towards the door
wond'ring to others, as much as to you,
"what are we living for?"
feeling rather sheepish as you peer around yourself
taking your heart seriously
as you place it upon the shelf.
feeling quite secluded as you live in perfection alone
but you can't take the chance that the others would dance;
that your beauty would be outshone.
feeling rather timid as you step forward, on with life.
the remarks that you hear, darling, year after year
cut deeply and sting like a knife.
wishing you could know the joy of opening up to sing
but you're holding back for your future's sake,
and you're feeling everything.
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