Her Life

The poet I thought I knew, she lived in pride.

Saldy, no one truly knew her, not even I. 

She was an outer shell of beauty that died.

She told me a piece of her life.

She showed me the scars that made her cry.

Both on her body and in her mind.

She was a beauty both broken and mended several times.

She still faked a smile when she cried.

Her eyes had beauty, her heart had shards,

her mind had scars, but her smile.

Her smile had gave life, but her pride took life.

She danced along the edge of sanity,

and always spoke of pride and vanity. 

Her words were heart breaking,

her soul was secretly aching.

The outlet she had was a book filled with the bad.

The bad parts of her past, the bad parts her present had.

A future she dream and feared. Her mind seemed so unclear

she hid this with her superficial "gear." 

She hid the scars, the fears, the lies, the tears. 

What a pity. A beauty like her will never know

how much she was truly loved. To her she was loved none

and admired by all men. She hated her lovers and wanted a friend.

She ony saw a knife as the end. Her poetry was what made her stay

until she wrote her heart away.