It was me.
Remember that girl who died her fringe ginger and you said 'you've been tangoed'?
That was me.
Remember that girl who had her cut so sort she looked like a boy?
That was me.
Remember that girl who was pushed to the back of the sank-bar queue and always end up using her only friend?
That was me.
Remember that girl who was so small and shy?
That was me.
Remember that girl who was away ill for a week and nobody sent her a 'get well' card?
That was me.
Remember that girl who stood in the rain at the end of school, crying because she was bulled?
That was me.
And remember that girl who went off one day but never came back the next, or the year, or the two years after that?
It was me.
My eyes.
What do they see, though the eyes of me?
Do they think what they first believe to see?
For I am the girl with two sets of eyes
One for seeing and one for believing.
For I am been told to put away childish things.
For I will not stop, for they are not the kings.
And I may ask what do you see though me.
From all of this in realuty…
For there will always be
The fake me.
Why?
Why me?
Why does it always have to be?
The one and only me?
Why me?
The feeling of wing's.
There is such a feeling
When you're feeling happy or low
Like when you're down you feel some kind of Shadow on top of you, all dark and cold
And when you're happy you light and free, like air
I feel those's feelings, and yet somehow I can make it feel real for myself
I feel those's wing's of feeling's on me, so powerful yet so much pain
Those wing's of purest white and darkest black, those wings of love and hate
I always feel them, ripping through my back and spreading far and wide for everyone to see
And yet, I don't want them people to see those's wing's of mine
But I want to fly with my wing's and tell and show people the way forward and never back
And one of the wing's of black as night will some day soon become a wing of white
And then one day, my wing's of white will take me away, to the place where I belong
But until that day I must wait, with my wing's of black and white
My wing's of my true feelings
The heart.
What is the point of having a heart, when it can be easily hurt?
Why can we feel pain that not even our's?
Who is the one to blame?
And can a heart even heal when it's broking, when it never lives?
Then why do we have heart, when the only thing we feel is the pain inside?
But, what is a heart without the feeling that does keep us alive?
Because then it would be a empty shell, but, what of?