They say she is pathetic,
Pitifully asking for attention,
But that is not her intention,
She is an artist,
Waiting for admirers to adore the brushtrokes of her sorrow,
Her cries are dancers,
Needing its audience's applaud,
She is a sunrise waiting for the morrow,
Her wounds a hidden fantasy,
Luring for you to come and see,
She begs for your sympathy,
But you will never understand,
How it feels to lose your right hand,
So spare her sympathy, give her your apathy,
For a crowd is needed for a performance to be.

CMT