Everyone loves sundays, but she didnt, it meant she had time, to think, and think made her cry.
She was a little stupid, or maybe a genius no one understood. She was the poetry it self. But if no one ever read her, but if no one ever took a second to listen to her words. What can poetry do, if no one reads it?
She was a little stupid, oh god, she was, so innocent, so quit, so lonely, so harm.
She was a genius no one understood, so deep, so fearless, so charming, so real.
The only thing we know for certain, is that she was, but not anymore.
