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It’s cold and the coffee is weak, too weak I think 
The house is empty and quiet 
I play some music hoping to fill the air with sounds 
It’s still quiet and the coffee is weak 
I am no longer lost but still trapped 
Under the judgment of those who pretend to care 
Well they don’t pretend, they do care 
They just fail to remember . . . 
Where I’ve been and what I’ve done 
They see me as that little girl with the pig tails and glasses 
The one who never spoke up for herself 
Weak like this morning’s coffee 
Hiding under the covers when it’s cold 
The little girl is gone . . . now I guess I’m just old

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