From the color of the faces in morning songs to the hatred they raise all the children on
Once upon a time in his room at 6 A.M., he knew there was something wrong
Looking after the world with his brownish eyes looking like a god that's in disguise
But he always felt lonely inside the house, was it autism he was thinking about?
And if he was able to make some good friends, why did nobody sit next to him
On the bus where there's no room for acceptance? How did he know not to ask the question?
Long lasting impressions, adolescence comfort's gone
Always wrote in his notebook, but he always knew there was something wrong
Hours later, he found himself waiting in the line to help
Stop the constant growling from his bottomless stomach
Meaning he was hungry; he was talking to his friend, not thinking about what happened
Then he thought about the immaturity of some black men
Because he was cutting past with no remorse; he had a fit with him
After that, he went outside, because again, no one would sit with him
When with his friends he feels like more than just a mere outsider
Thought about today and inside of his head, he shouted:
"Why do all of these people treat me like I wasn't really there?
I'm trying to be their friend, but it's like they didn't care
Before they call me retarded, right now's the time to say
I was born to save the world, but I'm ashamed of it today"
Imagine a place that you're standing within with all of the neighbors and people and friends
How would we know the possible fact that most of their hands were tainted with sin
He faced this every day; he always knew that something was missing
He always felt that he was different, and he knew that some people are ignorant
It was painful, but he never stopped writing and never stopped fighting for change
And he never stopped being a northern man and he never stopped feeling the pain
And what he was doing was in a tradition of ancestors never aware of him; it continues today the soul of a northerner
Born of the other America
From the color of the faces in morning songs to the hatred they raise all the children on
Once upon a time in his room at 6 A.M., he knew there was something wrong
Looking after the world with his brownish eyes looking like a god that's in disguise
But he always felt lonely inside the house, was it autism he was thinking about?
And if he was able to make some good friends, why did nobody sit next to him
On the bus where there's no room for acceptance? How did he know not to ask the question?
Long lasting impressions, adolescence comfort's gone
Always wrote in his notebook, but he always knew there was something wrong
Hours later, he found himself waiting in the line to help
Stop the constant growling from his bottomless stomach
Meaning he was hungry; he was talking to his friend, not thinking about what happened
Then he thought about the immaturity of some black men
Because he was cutting past with no remorse; he had a fit with him
After that, he went outside, because again, no one would sit with him
When with his friends he feels like more than just a mere outsider
Thought about today and inside of his head, he shouted:
"Why do all of these people treat me like I wasn't really there?
I'm trying to be their friend, but it's like they didn't care
Before they call me retarded, right now's the time to say
I was born to save the world, but I'm ashamed of it today"
Imagine a place that you're standing within with all of the neighbors and people and friends
How would we know the possible fact that most of their hands were tainted with sin
He faced this every day; he always knew that something was missing
He always felt that he was different, and he knew that some people are ignorant
It was painful, but he never stopped writing and never stopped fighting for change
And he never stopped being a northern man and he never stopped feeling the pain
And what he was doing was in a tradition of ancestors never aware of him; it continues today the soul of a northerner
Born of the other America 
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