The boys in the street mend their cars.
A miniature garage, it seems.
I feel like crying, I feel so alone,
No-one to mourn me when I am gone.
No-one to miss me, no-one to care.
I pound at the walls, but no-one is there.
And if they are there, then no-one hears.
And if they hear, then no-one cares.
No-one to care, no-one to cry,
If I live, If I die.

The boys in the street are at it again,
Always the same, unless it rains.
I can't understand why I feel so sad,
What is causing this? Am I mad?
I'm in a room whilst the walls close in.
Everything dizzy, in a spin.
The posters I liked suddenly glare at me,
Laughing, jeering, all of them stare at me.
Faces, faces are crowding me out.
"Who am I?" I shout.

And the boys in the street mend their cars.
I watch them and feel more alone.
Voices are shouting, "Do this", "Do that".
Nobody tells me what it's about!
Where do I turn? What do I do?
They will not tell me? Why can't You?
It can't be so hard, why can't I see
The missing link that will set me free.
I'm so confused, I've been seeing stars.
And the boys, still mend their cars.

I struggle to remember when I wrote this poem. It could have been anywhere from age 11 to age 16.
There is some probability in all those ages, but the age range I feel most likely is age 12 to 14