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I might never be the finest girl alive,
but I'm the girl with the realist story.
I see not of my perfection,
but my dirty reflection,
Mirrors crying, tears on the ground,
I see my past all around me,
Different face around me are infinity,
I never try to judge one with my dignity.
It's like, I'm in a train in the rain to nowhere,
just trying to hide from my pain,
words of explanation in my brain can't seem to understand.
Cold blood running down my veins,
the mirrors are obtaining,
trying to domain me again and again.
My wounded heart pound is going fast,
the sound of the mirrors' wise words I reject,
it's trying to correct me, but I neglect.
Red tears falling down my face,
Lord hear my prayers and scare not my life.
I've got a confession for the mirrors' profession,
my eyes buys guys, when I look in the high skies.
I know I'm not perfect,
but I need back my salvation,
to give me directions,
while I'm trying to survive.
I know the mirrors are divined,
and they need to be crowned,
cause they've gave me a fresh start,
when I was out there in the streets.
Living half alive.