The world outside bustles
As everyone rustles
Through their busy lives.
She sits outwardly still and calm
But waiting for some balm
To come soothe her tired soul.

Soothe the sting and burn
Of having to relearn
How to live and go on.
Soothe the fear and pain
Of having to refrain
From saying what she wants to really say.

If only they knew
If only they saw
The little child
That hides within.

If only they heard
If only they sensed
The trembling babe
That cries at night.

But a grown woman
Has perfected the art
Of painting on masks.
The lines, the colors,
So perfectly drawn on
To hide the imperfect reality.

So the world bustles
With everyones' rustles
Of living their own lives.
And she...
She waits, paralyzed.