Amidst the dark night under the noble scape of stars
Her perfectly kohled eyes of all the puckered scars
The ineffable mysteries of sadness, pain, and rage
Her deepest thoughts run wild on an endless blank page

She is not a dictionary of adjectives
Nor the amalgam of derivatives
She's a simple girl who locked her fears in poetry
As she puts the language of verse into a plethora of creativity

Writing poems is her way of spending pastime
As the giggling laughter of passing rivulet continue for she doesn't know pantomime
Nobody is perfect, so never mind intrigue and ridicule
She's not an epitome but a congeries of atom and molecule

She let her soul speak through words
From the darkest crevices of her mind
She puts sadness like a garment
Into beautifully written lines

Just like the larkspurs, she'll bloom again
For she's not easy to decipher from her red-ink smearing pen
Like a puzzle that lost its significant piece
Everything she writes, a magnum opus, a masterpiece.