You promised me the world,
Then left to go find your own.

The ink smothers papers in unforgiving battles of writers.

Where fame outweighs the need for imagery, the structures aimed to be masterpieces, broken into master pieces.

The imagery lost with the message as words wonder about in disorganized sequences.

The meaning becomes opaque, as perspiration drowns the paper,panicing impatiently your words are flooded in pools of poems, so they fade and drift away, without any views or likes only dismay is displayed.

The well of inspiration, the whisperer of words of wisdom washing away woes and wounds of wallowing men and women.

She imbues lost and broken hearts, with bliss not a drop of ink is waisted as her skill is demonstrated.

Passionate and proud, we ponder after she writes. She's the master of imagery and the Queen of Poetry.

My little box, tell me the truth
I can't see brightness
I can't hear happiness
I'm torn in little pieces
I'm within fire storm
My little box, don't blame me
When I miss my torturer
When I miss my torture
When I miss my pain
My little box, it's not your fault
It's my fault to love
It's my fault to trust
It's my fault to be hurt
I'm the only one to blame
My little box, show me
The way to my agony
Feed me with your misery
Jail my hopes and dreams
And have me put to sleep
My little box, grant my wishes
To never have a life
To never be happy
To never wish for coming days
And never let her leave you again

The sea is becoming rapidly salty
No matter how much skies rain
The waves are strongly agitating
And my ship can no longer sustain

So again and again and again
I want you to look at my vane
I want you to be so much closer
I want you to heal all of my pain