You said I was a tortured soul
on a page of history,
Stained in ink and blotted dark
with blue-bruised mystery:
A violet, faded, smudged-up sketch -
A violent, jaded, budged-up sketch
for only you to see.

You said I was a dried out bloom
in a bowl of pot-pourri,
Soaked in scent and covered up
with dust-gilt rosemary.
A creamy, browning, tired-out rose –
A dreamy, drowning, hired-out rose -
for only you to see.

You said I was a broken jewel
on a beach in Withernsea,
Aged with rain and tainted pale
with bone-white misery.
A speckled, bony, dead-beat pearl
A freckled, lonely, lead-feet pearl
for only you to see.

I say I’m just a lonely girl
in a world of tragedy,
Lost in smoke and shaken up
by white-flash gravity.
A sleepy, aching, smiled-to girl
A weepy, waking, lied-to girl
for no-one else to see.