Mine is the song that no one sings;
the melody the mockinbird has forgotten.
I am the lone peasant amongst powerful kings,
and I carry the burden.

I am the girl on the street,
the familiar face in a nearby cafe.
I am not remarkable or discreet.
I do care what you think and say.

Mine is the laugh you hear on the train,
the smile you notice and immediatley displace.
I'm quite plain,
yet beauty dances across my face.

I am the notes of a piano, swirling like water in a creek,
hiding behind the trees.
I am the tear rolling down your cheek,
that no one sees