Autobiography

I don’t care if it’s not right

My bark may be louder than my bite

I've lived for years without a life

I feel like an old rundown housewife

There’s a soul somewhere, trapped inside

It just likes to try to hide

I need a hand

I need a friend

I don’t want this to be the end

I've got a roof over my head

And a really comfortable bed

I'd rather be alone, with me instead

Than will him, you know who I’m talking about

My second home is close yet far

To get there I have to go in a car

I might look different

I might have changed

But it’s not my fault

It’s because my whole life was rearranged

Nobody even knows I’m me

But oh well, who cares

I like being a mystery