Beautiful woman, so misunderstood. Taken but free, she is not me. Depicted as a woman beyond her own self, huddled in a corner writing to herself. Depicted as a writer far less than her own good, hidden talents are often grossly underscored.
What happened to her?
Stronger than her own mind, her heart has lost far too many fights. Yet appreciation lies at its core, fears and brainwashed manipulation keep her huddled in that corner, body on the floor. They said it was overdose. Murder was the cure. Lies and trust demanded by friends, she gave in letting them believe she was someone else within. Wise but young, taken from her own body, making me wonder, where is me?
Where is she?
Unhappy alone or unhappy with another, positivity can’t creep itself into the picture. Happy with her heart, not with her mind, or is it the other way around? I resign. Back and forth, write and scratch, tearing, crumbling, tossing talent in the trash. Believed lies, trust is lost, believing and trusting are simply dust. I am taken by the wind, my body in midair, trusting no one but myself, there is belief in nothing real.
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