sealed off by her own prejudgement,
nothing can be just as perfect.
this world of hers, so silent,
just as quiet as she had planned.
- this was breathing in the sawrust.
- this was becoming stardust.

when will the pretty girl realize,
she's alone in a room of mirrors.
disappearing in all her reflections.
no matter how much make-up covers her tear-stung eyes,
no matter how much lace bares her glossy skin,
her hurt is self-made, not to be shown.
nothing to be healed.
nothing to be heard of.
the world won't fix itself for her.

when will the lonely girl realize,
this is all she'll ever become.
a zero on my numerical pad;
another stereotype turned fad.
when the only ones listening are staring back at her,
and seeing nothing in her eyes.
she'll offer nothing but take it all.
the world won't listen enough to understand her.

this was her escape,
her way out from below it all.
a pressure all too realistic,
her wounds were knife-shaped and misleading,
and with an aching back,
i fell to fall a friend in need,
when really she was no one at all.
the girl had fallen while the world was asleep.