alex.17.female.
latin blood.1st generation.currently living on a farm.
poet.passionate writer.student.
pansexual.religiously lost.musically oriented.
extra curvy.more to love.
A POET
She sits alone
grabbing the most popular
weapon known to man.
The pen scribbles away,
doodles and words
uncomprehendable.
Rhymes and patterns
only she can follow.
The room she sits in
is darkened by the years,
abandoned bye the sane,
and forgotten by the heartless.
She writes of hope
when there is
no glimmer of sunlight.
Sleeping throughout the day
and awake at night,
her knocturnal ways
allow her to avoid the world beyond.
She writes of love
when she can't even
find out how to spell the word.
Thouts so foreign,
she can only dream
of what it's like to be held
so close to the heart.
She cannot write of hate
when she prides herself
on not feeling such an emotion.
Only a soul so far gone
in an ocean so dark
could harbor terrible thoughts
towards any person.
She cannot write of regret
when it would mean
coming to terms with
every mistake commited in the past.
The tears that flowed like rivers
down her pale face
left permanent marks.
She refuses to write of death
when it is the only wish
she holds so dear.
A road so simple to follow.
But finding it is the most difficult.
When death takes her,
she will not worry about writing any more.
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