The flowers that lay on the grave of a small town girl,
Give a pleasant smell to her little world.
A tragedy the she lived to only her fourteenth year.
She held the pain inside and hid it from the world.
Only to let it go in the form of a knife to her wrist.
To the water that slowly drained her life away.
What is most tragic is the unseen joy,
in the parent's eyes as they watch her make her decent.
Into her imaginary world.
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