she was the girl in the corner that saw everything through [purple] tinted glass. her strength was not hidden in the spoken language in the tossing of a [basket] ball in the world of numbers and computations but proudly exhibited in words. written in neon in black in [blood] red and white for the world to see. her eyes were privilege to sixteen years of human abuse and triumph to the everyday and sometimes [imaginary] fairytale world everyone wished they had. these eyes were able to watch [people] things events and document them [with]out prejudice. and maybe her lack of strength of confidence people tried to reason with the verbal world was a bit odd. but she lived to be [colourfully] odd. the ordinary was boring was simple was plain and monotone. yet colour was music was life was [spirited] vibrancy she was still getting used to. still learning to paint with [sunshine] instead of [midnight] black and look [high] up not down as far as she could. and the words she etched onto paper of journal or dresser or napkin had gotten her to [this] point where she could sit in [almost] non-existent comfort and admit that she did not [really] like people or putting herself [ideas] out in front of them. that writing was the [only] thing she had it was the [driving] force in her life. that feeling [stifled] and lifeless and uninspired was a fate worse than death and the inability to write and create and express [emotion] was [absolutely] petrifying. and [just] maybe she was deranged and crazy for wishing [needing] something different out of the world she truly believed she belonged in. because [only] that world accepted those who looked through [purple] tinted glass.