She gripped for her sanity
Clinging to potions and herbal remedies

Searched for words, desperately
The void leading to alternative poetry

Never feeling things clearly
Composing rhythms more effectively

Lifetimes lacking serenity
Her words easing more than Hennessy

Masterpieces to occupy infinity
Or, at least, hold their own, indefinitely

Even to her, her muse is a mystery
Craving simplicity, not denying complexities

Finding the insignificant inspiring
A much greater fate to which she's aspiring

Accustomed to an unbound mentality
Skilled to manifest, persuade her own destiny

Success infects, not only genetically
Prophetic grandeur that she'll fulfill, definitely

Spitting out diction- somewhat addictively
By design, she's cursed as a poet, respectively