The Pen Is A Sword, And Paper A Shield

A past forgotten, but not erased Hidden in scratches on a page. A young girl dead, Expired in sorrow From a wound left unsaid. The only trace, a tear-laden scrap, Evoking what was since hidden. Words to forget, Words to remember. Solace writing begets. She cries this night, pen moves as thunder As she races against the clock. Fighting to log The terrors inside Before they're long forgot. Gadget in hand, she writes to escape The emotions trapped inside her. Feelings of shame For a body loathed; Her faulty heart's to blame. Pen falls at last, she's done for the night, Trying to recall why she wrote. . . Alas, it's gone, Forgotten. Leaving Strength renewed to go on.