Everything around her makes her down,
Every stormy wind is catastrophe
Every new step she takes, they slander her
Every word ended beneath the heart,
Every tear dried at the duct,
Everything can happen to her,rising voice is trespass
Irony here, her surroundings is her blood kin,
Born as little doesnot mean to accept all the crap old fogey do, soul is not a machine to ready with every harm.
Like the sharpen sword, she cut every head, when brinks brink.