High school is a really bad melodrama

Who am I?
Why am I here?
Why doesn’t he love me?
What is the meaning of life?

I hear them talk
Like hyperactive worker bees
In their egocentric universes
Full of needs and insecurities

Am I alone?
Why aren’t I popular?
Who are my real friends?
Why didn’t I say something?

And I laugh to myself
Because they don’t know
How obvious it is
If you take it slow

Am I Evil?
What is Good?
Do you think I’m pretty?
Does my existence even matter?

Always looking for answers
Will put you in a mental institution
Do what I did in Algebra
And answer NO SOLUTION