Sparkatale

Where the world is black and white
She sees it in a multi-colored inflection.
Where the logic's simply wrong or right
She finds options that never see inspection.

It's a twisted state of mind she obtains
Being born with a brain somewhat disturbed
Giving her ideas that are stress and strain
So she locks them away in a voice unheard.

This poor child knows normal is not she
It's a label forever marked upon her face
Deep within the eyes that forever will see
Daydreams that simply turn into wasted space:

An unnecessary waste of energy and time
A murder of something that could be more ideal
But nobody will ever know her truest crime—
These thousands of suicides forever concealed.

Late in the night, just before time of sleep—
Or what was meant to be said restful peace—
She mourns and aches with a pain soul-deep
Begs quietly for a remedy; asks for a release.

And was it fair to place this burden upon her?
To make two eyes with such strength of vision
And set such powerful eyes into an avid dreamer...
Whoever was responsible for this awful decision?

She tosses and turns as another image plays
Another wild notion turned into a nightly picture
And in the morning, she wakes up with dismay
While she turns her latest child into empty scripture.

No matter how many stories she dares to create
In the attempts to simply make them go away,
Trapped in this could-be-but-never-will-be state...
Is ultimately where she is always going to stay.

Quietly she longs to find a way out of all of it
Because the life she lives has gotten lonely
She craves escape from the insanity of her wit
Whispering softly, "If I were normal... If only..."