Sadness claws and rips,
the fiber of my being,
inches from my soul.

The first time I showed my grandmother my poetry,
she looked me straight in the eye and said,
"You know poets die young."
I tried to push it away for years,
just crazy words,
from a dementia-suffering old woman.
Now I can find the truth in the words.

We are a community of wandering souls,
looking for a place to call home,
looking for someone to love
that will love us back.

We're a group of people who hide pain,
who shove it into words,
as we cry silent tears,
every day becoming heavier
under the weight of the world.

No wonder we die young.

I wonder what younger me would think now,
looking at my face.
Would she still think I was pretty?
Would she still think I was nice?
Would she still think I was smart.
Would she still see herself in me?

Would she still see
the girl who hid under the kitchen sink,
and danced in the rain,
and sang until she was put to bed?
Would she still see something worth saving?
Some piece of me that was heaven-bound?

I still feel like her.
I feel like I'm still that small,
like I'm weaving between the legs of people in the crowd,
looking for my mother,
looking for someone to guide me,
but finding only stranger's hole-ridden jeans.
lost.
a lost little girl.

a lost little girl,
fading in and out of existence.

a lost little girl wearing
a polka-dot dress.

a lost little girl
looking for home.

In every universe
In every time warp
In every reincarnation
I will find you again

The one people dont look at twice,
Who people overlook,
Who people dont realize are the strongest,
Have seen more,
Have felt more,
Have lost more,
Who put the biggest smile on their face,
So people dont pity them,
They are the best listeners,
And always understand,
Because people always dont suspect the quiet one