Whispers of the Soul
Picking the skin 'round my bloody finger
They say laugh at her it's not like it's gonna kill her
I've dreamt of their mocking in every nightmare
Why have I never dreamt instead, of a savior
What a joke it would be if they tried to see her
What a joke it would seem if she was more than just peculiar
She's never been to a place where they haven't mocked her
She's never seen a face that tried to get to know her
They never wished for the company of someone like her
Oh, they'll say they're just teasing
She's just sensitive and overthinking
She always despised the fact that she was her
The women in the mirror was too familiar
Eyes too hollow, soul too unwise
Too quite in company, too big in size
She felt like Medusa, unwanted company
A forgettable little girl
Utterly disposable pearl
She felt like a poet, a soul fated to remain unseen
Until she wrote her prose, 'til she wrote her soul
Until she mended her heart and it's many bullet holes
Until she wrote poetry, until her life became known
Then they sympathized,
Then they realized,
Then they apologized,
But my mind does not forget
My heart does not forgive
Instead I write the poetic whispers of my soul
Suffering surely leaves a heavy toll
How lucky am I, for I am not a soul that aimlessly roams
How lucky am I, for I know the joy of writing poems
© Aubrin
They say laugh at her it's not like it's gonna kill her
I've dreamt of their mocking in every nightmare
Why have I never dreamt instead, of a savior
What a joke it would be if they tried to see her
What a joke it would seem if she was more than just peculiar
She's never been to a place where they haven't mocked her
She's never seen a face that tried to get to know her
They never wished for the company of someone like her
Oh, they'll say they're just teasing
She's just sensitive and overthinking
She always despised the fact that she was her
The women in the mirror was too familiar
Eyes too hollow, soul too unwise
Too quite in company, too big in size
She felt like Medusa, unwanted company
A forgettable little girl
Utterly disposable pearl
She felt like a poet, a soul fated to remain unseen
Until she wrote her prose, 'til she wrote her soul
Until she mended her heart and it's many bullet holes
Until she wrote poetry, until her life became known
Then they sympathized,
Then they realized,
Then they apologized,
But my mind does not forget
My heart does not forgive
Instead I write the poetic whispers of my soul
Suffering surely leaves a heavy toll
How lucky am I, for I am not a soul that aimlessly roams
How lucky am I, for I know the joy of writing poems
© Aubrin