To everyone else I'm a quiet person.
Often amidst the night I wonder how far wide the world stretches.
What stories do the skies tell?
Do unicorns exist?
When do I know to call it enough?
The small fire burning inside of me often wonders if I can fulfill the little wishes for myself.
Do I look the same kind of pretty to everyone?
When the skies go dark, and it's snowing where do the puppies sleep?
Does light always glow at the end of the tunnel?
What if the light's broken?
Sometimes when the sun has set, and everyone is back home to their family, I wonder how's mine?
The fire in my stomach reflects in my eyes when I think of the dreams I've given up
Just so they're fine.
Underneath the shifting faces, heaving up and down,
Killing a bit of myself with each interaction I wonder,
How's the world outside of this room?
Are they really roads between seas and mountains?
I look at those colourful cars outside and laugh at how
To everyone else I'm just another quiet person.