Sitting on the sidewalk curb trading her cards.
Having the best ones she takes herself with high regard.
Or battling it out with Beyblades like on the small box T.V,
winning or losing but still biding my blade with no guarantee.
Maybe she's catching up with the latest cartoon,
then playing the Game Boy at noon
with the neighbours kid.
That's her day, that's all she did.
Either that or drawing on the sidewalk,
or biking up and down the block
at the speed of five miles per hour
imagining my bike with some super speed power.
She's a kid with no care of the tic toc on the clock,
no rush to grow up living under her own rock.
She's obsessing over all the small shit
because the big parts never fit.
At home it's another story,
like walking into another territory.
Ain't nobody knows what happens behind closed doors
Even at school she walks down a cruel road.
She's growing up but slow, for now she pretends to be a superhero
with a pillow case as her cape to fly like a mosquito.
Jumping from couch to table and over,
she feel like Superman, but even bolder.
An average kiddish life, right?
Wait for the rest of her story to ignite.
Then you will see how looks mislead,
like an appealing fruit that it tastes bitter.
