in this world,
no place for her at all.
No place for a crystal, so faulted,
among the perfect pearls.
Not screaming or crying,
or skillful lying,
could show them, what really,
she desperatly needed them to see.
The seeds of love, she did sew,
but they would seldom ever grow,
and through the all the sorrow and the gloom,
she'd never glance a lonely bloom.
She sang her praise to the Lord on high,
then saw no heaven in the sky,
and knew that she could not be lead,
by one who was if ever, dead.
A smile so grim she'd often place,
upon the mask of her scared face,
so from others she could hide,
the torture that took place inside.
Crimson she etched on the porcelain,
of her own, imperfect skin,
without a moment's hesitation,
creating pain, yet elation.
She keeps on living, day to day,
why can't they let her fade away?
For of her pain, she's not been rid,
she's learned to keep it better hid.