Her name is nothing incredible,
It's only ever been a long letter
So she strives to be the best, sometimes better.
Her pain is something kept silent,
And even though no one cares to make it loud
She hides it
Only bending to the pressure of the crowd.
She lives in a world of solitude,
Only evaded by the necessary company
Which is always
Then it's something that's expressed as phony.
She's trapped in some kind of space,
where nothing's really worth her time
And everyday it's
Her presence is what they consider a crime.
No one seems to notice her strife,
Much to her quiet displeasure
They wouldn't care
Her worth they do not accurately measure.
All her life she's been the keen and silent one,
But that seems like not enough to be
She wonders how
Or rather how to be the one they wish to see.
She's never had a moment of solid emotional shape,
Her turmoils always clashed within
But only if
They would know she'd been the first to sin.
Sometimes she wants to cry,
scream and crumble and rage
But other times
To eternally, finally, forever be freed from her cage.