“For what is happiness anyway?”* She wonders.
It isn’t something you can touch,
Isn’t something you can smell.
You can feel it,
I can feel you have it there in your soul.
I have it too I think.
There isn’t anything telling me otherwise.
Why can’t you be happy in your way, and I be happy in mine.
My happiness is a pad of paper and a pencil.
I don’t need other to tell me what to do.
So there.

But as she sits there alone,
She can still hear them whisper.
That she isn’t good enough,
That she’s weird,
Awkward,
Nerdy.
She tries not to listen,
Counters their conversations with thoughts of her own,
But it doesn’t work.
The words penetrate the walls thrown up hastily,
And she retreats farther from them until she is backed into a corner.

But no one notices this happening,
Not even she.
Believing that the world is more,
Smiling through it all,
And being a friend to those that have none.

The only problem:
Believing she has friends until the
Friends of the friends she has come along,
And take what she built up
Until she has none.

Move on, move on, move on.
She tells herself,
A constant, droning chant
In the back of her mind,
To drown out the regrets, the pain, the empty.
One foot in front of the other until
She has walked out and
Left the place she feels so much despair in.
Continuing on in her own way until
She can make it one more day.