It's a mess. Low down within her chest. It's a mess. It's butterflies churning and flying pests.
It's the world against her heart - her zest. It's twisting her up and causing her distress. It's a mess. She'll never think that she is blessed. She'll never allow herself to rest. She's pressed, some days she can barely bring herself to dress, she's stifled by the agitating stress, of wondering why everyone is so possessed, to achieve and accomplish such finesse. It's like they were all given answers but all she can ever do is guess.