Sta.sh
Her name is nothing incredible,
It's only ever been a long letter
Just something
...that's
not
even memorable...
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
...although
it's
obviously pliant...
Only bending to the pressure of the crowd.
She lives in a world of solitude,
Only evaded by the necessary company
Which is always
...unwelcome
when
openly argued...
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
...always
the
same case...
Her presence is what they consider a crime.
No one seems to notice her strife,
Much to her quiet displeasure
They wouldn't care
...she's
considered
a lowlife...
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
...they
want
her redone...
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
...it
were
to escape...
They would know she'd been the first to sin.
Sometimes she wants to cry,
scream and crumble and rage
But other times
...she
wants
to die...
To eternally, finally, forever be freed from her cage.
You'd be rather surprised by all the people who are in relatable situations. I'm just gonna say this now, talk to someone that understand's. It might help if you feel anything like me. Thanks once again for commenting~!