She survived the thunderhead of domestic disturbance,
She never planned on becoming the black sheep's shepherd,
Of her own meaningless drawings and poetry creations,
The demon split dimensions and how feeds on her patience,
That was before the red slits on her pearly white wrists,
The teddy bear thrashing and her hormonal cyst,
But that gave inspiration to climb out the abyss,
And continue writing what she liked and would love to coexist with,
Psychedelic language,
Her graphite's anguish,
Persisted to punish the the notepad with poetry painted,
But yesterday was cloudy,
And the short hours it felt,
That's when I realized I was writing about myself,
