In a statement, I am an oxymoron. I am a wilted flower. There are so many roses for me to look up to, but they are so different from myself that there is no pint in trying. I am a child that lost her teddy bear, and three years later, I have not forgotten. I still wander the last place I had Teddy in hopes of mending my empty soul. I am a French poem to a group of Germans. They do not understand me and I drone on like pretty words on a torn out sheet of notebook paper. I am a musical piano performing on the left side. Ever note on pretty white keys sounds like a haunted choir. I am an oxymoron because everyone hears me, but nobody understands.