Do Not Answer
Sometimes I find myself mad at my maker.
I used to think he favored me.
I thought that I was one in seven billion, to be exact.
Or maybe that we all are,
But the point is I thought that there was a grand scheme of things.
So why did he make me the way that I am?
My brain has too few, or maybe many, wires.
And I'm pretty sure the chemical composition isn't quite right.
My erasers running out,
From too many mistakes.
So if you're up there, man in the sky,
Youll be happy to know,
That I deleted your number.