We are all a poem struggling to be written by someone else's hand.
Each breath changing with the beginning, middle, and end.
This is the poem due to my friend.
The one who thinks that she has nothing to live for.
The one who hides in the dark with razor blades or burning flames.
This is for the art she creates and the masterpiece that she is.
Each scar on her skin akin to the eraser marks on her canvases.
This is for those little imperfections.
The ones hidden underneath a work of true beauty.
This is the poem she's been waiting for.
The one that tells her living is love.
That no matter where she goes she can always come back home.
This is the poem that tells her not to be afraid.
This is the poem that tells her to be free.
The one that reminds her if she's lost and alone to find me.
This is the poem I've been wanting you to read.