The Blonde One
You know her. She's dating Mr. Popular. She drives the brightest car in the lot.
Oh! The blonde one! I guess I forgot.
You know her. She's painting in the art wing. She's in trouble for wearing a hat.
Who? The blonde one? I don't remember that.
She's never alone in the halls
But in class she won't talk at all.
Can you remember her name? Can you recall where she's from?
I doubt it. She goes by "the blonde one."
She's tall and quiet and intimidating, I know
But she won't bite, I swear, she just goes with the flow.
She's always in the shadows, always behind the scenes
But she's really very gentle and never mean.
She's a crutch, a therapist, a teddy bear.
Silent and concerned and always there.
But no one has stopped to ask about her day.
Why would the blonde one have something to say?
She can't share her heart. Believe me, she's tried.
When she speaks up, they look right on by.
So she's given up. She knows they don't care.
Why bother talking when nobody's there?
Her silence holds her back, keeps her in check,
But she whispers her opinions, so she won't be a wreck.
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