Not the hero of my own story

You know what makes a character so interesting?

Their faults, their imperfections, their clumsiness and awkwardness.

The way they react to things,

Their shyness or bashfulness.

So why am I trying to hide those things?

Trying to be the perfect little doll for people to play with

And in the end cast aside for being too unreal and impossible to achieve?

I’m like a Barbie doll: stiff arms and legs, fake smile. Full of broken pieces.

I am the second character, the one trying too hard,

Overachiever, and regretful,

The one drowning in a pool with no lifeguard,

No Princess to save here! Just me, the unsuccessful.

Run along now, I am not the one you are looking for,

Nor what anyone is, in matter of fact,

Yeah, I know self pity isn't exactly a pretty affair,

But it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

So, what makes a character interesting?

All the flaws, and redeeming qualities,

But I guess we’ve only talked about one side of things.

And that’s ‘cause I am not the hero of my own story.