I'm
tired
of
meeting
different
people
in
one
body!
Now only if everyone could stop pretending!

Let's go for a walk
to
the
grave.
Just me and you!

And they thought me was dead
scoffs
  But trust me people, I've never felt more alive!

They call me beautiful,
For even my scars are beaded with jewels of pain!
They call me charming,
For  even my tears shed down like pearls, as in the monsoon rain!
And then they call it a day,
For even my words, rant like the late winter's hail!

Devilish are her acts, wicked are her deeds.
Even the darkness takes over the moon, as she walks on the streets.

Sweetie, she's a storm, don't come her way
This is how my mirror, describes me, every single day!

I'll play the cold night
Will you be my moon?
Even when it doesn't rain,
Oh my darling flower,
Would you still bloom?

The inscrutable, immense pain,
The benumbed battles inside her head.
No one would ever know,
The agonising, tormented thoughts she fed.

Tripping over the mirage of happiness,
While her soul lying in the desert of pain.
She fought, she lost, she screamed and cried.
Only to have her efforts in vain.

Hands cold as ice, drippin' off blood,
Barred by her own thoughts as a prisoner.
Even tears wailed and screeched for salvation
From the deeply cluttered soul of hers.

She was broken, she was shattered,
Yet they called her a mess.
But she was the real warrior,
who now lies  peacefully on her death bed.