A Broken Writer
There was once a girl who loved to write;
Whether it be with a pencil,
Or the blade of a knife.
Every line a release from the torment she lived.
Every dull ache a chance to escape reality.
She placed the marks where nobody would see.
If others ever saw they would fail to understand.
She did it to relieve pain,
Not as a desperate cry for help.
There is no reason to cry when no one will listen.
Her family and friends gave her love,
Yet still she felt alone and sorrowful.
Little did others know,
She was always overlooked and forgotten.
They believed she was happy,
For she didn’t deserve depression.
Her life seemed one to be proud of;
Yet that’s the unjust way of misery,
It strikes without warning
To those who were once cheerful.
It turns a calm day to a chaotic storm;
A beautiful flower to a wilted grey.
In secret she let her tears flow,
They mixed with the red paint she once used to write.
Until she finally saw the end to her story.
With one final line across her throat.
She escaped from her sadness,
Her soul now free.
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