the life of a showgirl. (ily taylor)

i love her so much, i tried to write something that spans the eras. here's that silly take of mine. 

few eyes glistened to the girl with teardrops on her guitar 

questioning smirks and stares gossiping "will she make it that far?"

a nomadic nerd at seventeen, god forbid she ever turns around

with quiet queries, and dancing dreams,

and fantasies of romeo kneeling to the ground

"but doesn't he belong with me???" " but that was the way i loved him!!!"

oh you fearless girl, hold your heart for days are going to be even more grim.

it wasn't long enough that foolish one had learned her lesson

stood enchanted by the rock guy and his mic hiding the cloaked gun

nineteen was too young to be messed at, but she didn't throw back the blade

long live all the mountains she moved, long live all the magic she made

yet choked herself at the memory of the halo holder she threw in embers

speak now, darling, this time machine doesn't take you back to december 

but soon, the ingenue found a better man

wait, she thought she did.

until he turned out to be trouble, until he blew the air out her face

until he burned the very home she thought was her heart's place

but he was only fake f***ing patriarchy until the tragic heroine fell 

a home and a red scarf, and a lady who remembers it all too well.

but like they say "everything that happens is for the good"

with a blood so bad, and dreams so wild, 

she again came out of the woods 

damn money, damn glory, damn all the brewed fame

ain't no way she got everyone filling their blank spaces with her name

bring bottles, bring cans, bring all of your favorite wines

the crown had finally landed on the woman born in 1989.

a twist of fate and phone calls earned a badge spelling cancelled 

chose the gate to hiatus when her delicate soul was strangled

the high horsemen fell back as the truth's gear changed to reverse

and the crown again landed on the serpent's head,

whose reputation once had never been worse.

not long enough had the twenty-year dark night prevailed 

when daylight seeped through the nets, why was it so delayed?

spelling has always been fun, but they'll call you out for breaking the rule

try to snatch your daylight, ensure your summer couldn't be more cruel 

miss americana who painted london all the way too whole

a lover girl in socal, who's bewitched us all body, mind and soul.

locked in homes like an exile we all sang in winter dust

"to *** with the man who ruined one's cardigan,

and another's promising august."

when someone stole her precious lullabies, left her there too numb

when despite seeing her tears ricochet, insolent hearts called her dumb.

and she sat wondering, if she could go to those lakes, 

the haven with her muse

where poets go to die when they've got nothing more to lose.

but the string was invisible, yet stronger than never before 

someone! go tell the girl, she's going down in folklore.

and whilst the folk celebrated childbirth, she delivered the other twin

hometown seasons and marjorie from above lauding for the fiesty win

no matter how big the crime, it's happening was forever fated

no matter how much the pain, after a while you ain't get to tolerate it

no matter how sad is today, there'll be happiness in seasons all four

no matter how loudly the heart dropped today,

these champagne problems aren't going to live evermore.

dawn slips into dusk, the day passes in a blink

finding herself at 3am wondering in the inescapable labyrinth 

looking at those peppermint candies,

friendship bracelets in the racks

they've got to tell some story, or are they merely stacks?

a typhoon of would've, could've, should've, sighing struggles in the fight

but she smiles and sleeps knowing it was just a wrecked midnight.

soon the momentary london vacay abruptly came to an end 

leaving an abandoned ship, a ghost, and a broken heart to mend.

screamed in front of the mirror, but dare she could take a tear outside

repeating, "buckle up dear bolter, all your lavish bruises you gotta hide"

for they'll again slam pity, shame, and blame at the fun they see

a tortured poet on her knees, begging to change the prophecy.

she stitched her scars with songs, turned her torment into art,

a phoenix from the ashes with a dove's innocent heart.

they say all's well that ends well, there's no rebuttal to that rule 

as the tale ends with the showgirl who's finally got her so high school.