She speaks her words softly,
As she stands unsteady on her feet,
She continues to weep,
Inside her mind she's afraid of life,
Holding closely what she might find,
All these questions of hers are mine,
Who directs the knife?
Will it hit my heart?
Or puncture my lung; a million times?
Will it hurt?
Leave my blood pooling before the dirt,
Will I crumble?
Would you even care?
Would you even notice if I were not there,
In the shadows that have soiled too many good hearts,
My heart has been not torn, but ripped apart,
My feelings are out on the table,
Part of a fable,
No longer apart of me,
Only something to describe my being,
In this life I continue living,
My feelings still existing,
Like the tree's spirit whispering,
In the steady mist of faithful bliss,
'There are no real reasons for loneliness',