A thousand years ago inside a child's head,
It seemed so easy,Seemed too bright,
It repeated to her all the time:
'You is different
You is beautiful
You is smart'
She tried to believe,
Tried to listen,
Tried to do,
Tried to carry the world on her shoulder and go on,
Even though she did not have to,
Sometimes seemed like truth,
Other times too silly to believe,
A grown woman, 3 lines pumped up to her face,
'Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.'
The words... Looked brutal,
But more honest,
The old words got rephrased,
'You is different
Not that good
You is alone'
She thought, different is in my loneliness,
I do it exceptionally well,
She thought, every fault could be not on the other side,
Her eyes still could see colours,
Blue is the sky,
Green is the grass,
Peace is the sea,
'As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.'
She had not known its name yet,
She called it 'the monster under my bed',
Not only for its scary voice,
But for its huge shadows,
She swore a million times it weighed more than they thought,
That made her stick to the bed,
Could not raise her head,
Could not wave for help,
She tried every time to think of the other side,
Blue is the sky,
Green is the grass,
But the sea is no peace,
She looked for it everywhere,
There is no such thing,
She thought of Jane,
She is a woman... So am I,
Me too, no bird and no nest ensnare me,
Me too can get off,
Try to deal with it,
Think of it like a cold,
A couple of days and it leaves,
But it always only goes for a couple of days,
It's here, under there, and everywhere, all the time,
She thought, just wait for your Edward,
On the other side,
Green is the grass,
Blue is the sky,
And you might be there too,
But no,
You is not that good,
You is not that different,
She thought, maybe there is no other side,
The grass is not green,
The sky is not blue,
Only in a beloving story could be,
Where Jane knew what she wanted,
And she could hear the voice she loved from all her heart,
From all over the other side,
Where the green grass,
The blue sky,
The peaceful sea,
But here,
You is all alone,
And dying is your art,
The only thing you can do exceptionally well,
'I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical'
