The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.
From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.
The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.
Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.
The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.
The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.
Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.
Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.
Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.
Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.