Lonely, lonely little girl,
left with the last crumbs of her heart,
gave it all way,
in hopes of making them stay.
but they never do.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
hidden away in the corner of the room.
watching,
waiting,
for someone to notice.
but they never do.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
listening to conversations between the friends she could’ve had.
but she messed it up,
and they never stay.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
excitement at the plans she hears
then remembering they aren’t for her.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
she’s slowly fading away from her corner,
and no one notices.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
tears run down her face,
because there’s no love in their hearts for her,
and they took her’s away
so she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Lonely, lonely little girl,
all alone.

The outsider is inside,
Inside the house, staring from the crusted window,
The latch calls to her in rusty tones.
She stares upon its existence,
wishing nothing more than to answer.

But the outsider, she is inside,
Her back turned to what she’s built,
Her eyes upon those who are outside,
Can they save her? Would they care to try?

Her elbow rests upon the dusty sill,
Eyes glossy like Rapunzel, the Golden One,
But she has grown old inside the house,
she has grown blind and deaf and dumb.

The outsider, she once wished,
to leave the depths of her understanding,
to venture into the clashing world,
to face the blatant nature of love,

But the outsider, she is inside,
over much has cried, died and lied.
The weight of gravity holds down the fort,
and her as well; she doesn’t fight.

She holds the hope she’ll someday be tempted,
to leave that which protects her so,
to venture through the grimy view,
lifted by that which holds her low.

The outsider, she’s still inside,
Forever more, should she still hide,
You could say that she should have tried,
She wanted to, with all her pride
To leave that which keeps her inside.
To leave that which keeps her inside.

Poetry runs through our veins. Meant for cold hearted people, whose hearts are covered up with stains.
Until pure love is the only thing on this planet that rains.

It wasn’t “I love you”
but at least it was goodbye.