I want to run. Be free. Be the little girl they see in me, but plot-twist happen frequently, opening your eyes to things you didn't see. Burning the cheerful into your mind. If only I didn't once leave that behind. If I could return to those naive, fun days. But fun was out and sad was in, so I figured "well okay." I dived right in, singeing my skin, turning me to the pit. I was told, "don't follow your instincts", so I guess this is what I get. Now I sit alone, a pitiful lump of coal, as a dog without bone, or soccer ball with no goal. I'm heading to "God knows where" on a train called "Oopsy Days," and when I arrive, they will all be amazed. For I am the writer who will give them a story, for I am a lighter, and my flame gives me glory.