She is the child,
Who sat on her own,
Who dreamed of bigger things,
Who always seemed alone.
Her friends never understood her,
And were never really there,
For do friends really call you names?
See the tears and not care?
They stole all the joy,
Out of her singing and smiles,
They made her do things their way,
And follow their styles.
But she never was quite the same,
They could never quite destroy her soul,
They couldn’t stop her drowning herself in schoolwork,
Or losing control.
They thought she was strange,
And weren’t following their example,
So they pushed her to the floor,
And her freedom they did trample.
There’s only one thing they can’t stop,
The way she twirls round and round,
And how much she drifts off and dreams,
But never makes one sound.
But for the whole of this time,
She was always cold; she made sure of this,
For all she wanted was to feel emotion,
She was too scared without it, she really didn’t exist.
So still to this day,
To cope with any pain,
She drifts off, twirls round and round,
And lets the cold remain.
