Her hands clinged around the pencil,
as if it were the last thing she'd touch.

Her head cleared in spite of the noise,
thinking only of the boy she loved.

As the noise began to rise,
her head began to grow.
And the gardens she used to plant,
rapidly began to glow

Imagination, such a scary place to hide,
in a room of introverts, secrets, and kids who want to die.

A crowded room, a pencil and wind that struck so coldly,
how could one ever be around people yet still feel so lonely?