She needed to express her words
Have them reach out,
Spoken upon the page
Words,
Syllables,
Sentences
Needed to mean something
But with each one wrote, anger consumed
Each burnt as if never mentioned,
It was though her thoughts ignited
Then became ash.
Needing to evoke the words they had to
Bleed,
Meaning,
Stained
On a page of flesh, This was her defining moment
Who to choose, who to witness her words,
Homeless were a thought, but never questioned
Her words were not trash, she needed not to be write
On skin with words that showed there own pain.
Words needed freshness, flesh of the innocent,
"Her first"
"Her cutting of life"
"Her mistakes upon this delicate flesh"
Inaccuracy, left rage as she slashed
At the words,
"Muffled screams"
As the living felt her words as she had cut
But that voice silenced.
Trial and errors correct instruments wielded,
She perfected her motion the living had to be still
For words were
Perfection,
Fulfilment,
Perfection
Of her word it felt so good so many pages ruined,
As before with  paper they were burnt to ash
She signed each upon the parchment
Names carved in to throats
"Poetic Death"
But now she cuts the pages out in to her
"Book of dead paper"
But the words still seen
When bodies found. Her destiny was calling,
To carve upon purest  flesh,
To let her words  bleed out.
They sacrificed there life, to further her words,
She was Poetic death, fear her, for her words meant your **death.