She only writes tragedies.
But no one else agrees.
They don't see why she's never happy.
Every time she falls, she scrapes her knees,
Never getting up, always displeased
With herself and the world that makes her fall.
Everything she hears, it sounds like drawls.
Only bad luck seems to befall
The girl, and herself; she's losing it all.
Her life, and her love, her hope and her faith;
There's only eight people she knew, and she was the eighth.
The other seven had no idea who she really was.
She herself barely knew the girl in the mirror.
Her self-image smudged blurrier; it didn't get clearer.
Never again would she write down a story.
Never again would the notebook be open then closed
Because she hated the world, and the world had opposed.