Did you know that you are the girl
people wrote stories about?
That they spend endless nights carving the perfect
little tales that could never match yourself?
How do you not know about the heart
you possess which weeps for those bereaved
when you've no fault. How must you stop
yourself when all want to do was lie?
Time moves on and so do you, you never stop
for nothing, and everything seems just too much.
Do have an idea on how much effort
people try to give into, just to paint you
a little closer to themselves when in
reality you wouldn't bat an eye for them.
Who are they anyway?
How could you not have known about
your blissfully crystal heart and spiteful,
wholesome thoughts, you were closer
to the heavens than to the earth but
people tried to tell you you were so
down-to-earth and so sweet and lovely.
Whatever that means.
Tell me how is that you were so ignorant?
Surely you couldn't have been, and I think
you were aware. You know, you just don't
want to erase what they created of you,
because it's better to be known as
a beautiful tragedy, than a hopeless chaos.
