how ironic it is to be in a room full of people
yet you feel emptier as ever
how ironic it is to be seen as a popular girl
yet you find it hard to belong somewhere, anywhere
I'm not who you think I am
I am nothing like the lilac sky you compare me to
sometimes I find it hard to breathe, being caught up in my thoughts
in my head
I am not who you think I am
I don't paint flowers and blue clear sky
I paint myself as a hurricane
I spill out my soul and hide it between words
I need you to listen
give me an answer

what is it about me that attracts loneliness?
why does the sun have to set so soon?