the people that are not people

looking out the window watching life pass me by.
it's been like this for as long as a can remember.
sitting in my room that's not really my room,
laying on my bed that's not really my bed.

going to a school that's not really a school, because it feels more like hell.
walking in halls filled with people that don't look like people, because they all look the same.
and as i walk down the hallways of a variable hell with is robot students and invisible iron bared windows.
I am content.
i remember where i could be.
my home that is not really my home.

but it's to late, I'm there.
my home that's is not really a home.
it is a house.
that has people that are not really people in it.
to me they aren't anything.
not robot look-a-likes.
not monster.
not demons.

I can not cry in my home that is not my home.
I can't cry anywhere.
I don't remember if i can cry at all.

the reason i hate my home that is not a home,
and the people that's are not really people in it.
Is because as they say home is where you heart is.
But my heart it not here,
it is with her.
the only person that is really a person.