People often think 'oh she does not cry at all'
A looking glass which has no fashion with cracks that are so small;
But this is not the case, for why can they not know
It seems that it is a bitter end for me to have to go;
But sometimes I just think 'do they even care at all?'
When all of this is over who is there to take the fall?
'Oh me' I say without a whim
I'm made of solid glass
But one day soon when hell will freeze that glass becomes the past.
