Woe is me,

What do you seek?

What do you see?

I'm just sitting here thinking,

Oh woe is me. 

Woe is me,

Can you not read?

Or see all the sadness that I bleed? 

Every soft-spoken word should be a reflection.

As to how I'm shrieking.

Woe is me,

internally, I will screech.

Much like a silenced speech,

Imagine all your defenses being breached,

An impediment in speech, misperceived 

Woe is me, 

The social deprive,

Often a damper on my means to survive, 

Leaving me to isolation, where I ponder my location.

Only to conclude an inquiry; where is it that I do belong?

Woe is me, 

Poor but striving to reach aristocracy,

Swiping layers of bulletproof red, over already plush lips.

Bordering on insanity whilst tiptoeing along lines of social repent.

Perhaps this beauty was poorly spent, an utter dent, in moral sanity.

Woe is me, 

Something you needn't know, or ever quite place. 

Simply a wonder, as to why I've torn such fine lace. 

Climbing up the staircase to acceptance, 

Only to find myself falling behind in essence.