The Puzzle-Box-Girl

Never understanding me, how I think, the ways in which I work.
A mastermind, I am called, in dealings with questions and confusion.
I have a mind, that all in the world whom had seen,
have lost their own trying to figure themselves into the ways at life I can look.

Them, everyone, seeming to be afraid when I never wanted that; fear put first, before something in which no harm was meant to be said, and thus was never outwardly spoken.

Child-like clues, hints, etched onto paper, so I can at least try showing things within my own personal views.

The small ones, with balls and rope, bobbing up and down the streets; shrieks of joyous laughter, from them I hope, to always hear on after. Friendly youths, chatting gaily, and some of them more than daily.

I, myself amongst us fall, with those out there, who live to believe:

In someone, somewhere, lies Earth's friend to us all.


And I try at times, that person to be,
and for more than odd occasion many persons have turned, for help from me.
I have been sought for advice, in the strangest of things;
from a card-note to send, on how a broken thought to mend,
to whom I would date, in another one's shoes.

They inquire as to my insights, when rather, I'm not all that fickled;
I only am:
A puzzle-box-girl, watching those around me, learning from them as they're the ones getting pickled.