A young writer filled with her inner fights.
A youth that tried to see the shining lights.
A teen with thoughts hidden by a large mask,
Who kept it bottled in a metal flask
To keep distance with what causes sorrow
And to open her eyes for tomorrow.
A child that hoped for good in the world.
The butterflies in her stomach whirled.
The blood in her veins slowed until it stopped.
And for the last time, her eyes dropped.
So she did what anyone may commend,
Preparing a phrase that would be the end
Of which she was ready to now say aloud.
Then dying, floating until she reached clouds.