She’s the type of girl who’d rather work behind the scenes than to be seen.
She’d rather bathe in meekness than to worship conceit.
She’s modest and soft spoken,
Why she’s quiet the golden token.

I mean like the last golden ticket,
She’s waiting to be found.
Not by a boy or anything,
She’s waiting to find herself.

You see she’s empty,
Like a hallway afterschool.
To avoid her clingy friend insecure,
She hangs with lonliness,
Occasusionally texting depression on saturdays and praising self love on sundays.

Unlike the caged bird that sings, she hums.
She’s the lone sunflower in the field that graviates to her own light.

She’s not meant to be like everyone else.

In the most excrusiating way,
Her strange beauty radiates.

Her auara as a halo,
She’s not the angel you’d imagine her to be.