She's Making Constellations

Mary Jane, she writes her songs
That won't be sung
And tries to fathom the stars
That are hung
From her ceiling into constellations.
She won't sleep tonight,
But that's nothing new.
Once her pulse beat too bright
Her insanity grew.
"I need to get out
Of my own head,"
Months before
She had once said.
It was sort of a beautiful day,
Long-fingered summertime.
But her soul had already turned gray
And she made them believe she was just fine.
And why shouldn't she grin
Like the rest of them did?
It was the last solid thing
So behind it she hid.