Poetry

Poor Thing

Poor thing.

She's only sixteen.

Lost her will to live back when she was eight,

Always feels alone even when she isn't

She hopes to move away from the hell that she was raised in.

Where was the world when she was broken,

Scared of the people she should've trusted?

'Cause all she is, 

She's made of dewdrops and butterflies

Whispers after they've crystallized,

All she wants is one romance,

But she never stood a chance.

She's made of glass that's broken for a song

And petals tore off just for love,

Was left on the ground bleeding and broken, 

Poor thing.