Knee-high socks.

Some seats become free,
Yet she stands none the less.
Her black knee-high socks,
And her dull, loose end dress.

Alone though surrounded,
She seems off in space.
No expression is visible,
On her fragile, young face.

Earphones are in,
What sounds does she hear?
Everyone around her,
Thinks she's something to fear.

'Who is this Gothic creature?'
'She's not like you or me!'
Their judgments running high,
Their little brains just can't see.

She has come along long way,
But still a way she must go.
Blocking out is her way of coping,
But no one will ever know.

'Will her dad still be drinking?'
'Will she make it to her bed?'
They don't know her story,
There is more than whats said.

Some seats become free,
Yet she stands again once more.
That fragile, young face,
Standing still beside the door.