The cry that will never be heard
There she sits in
her solemn silence,
painting a crimson red,
with a knife to her wrist.
Every ounce spilling
onto her paper is another
demon drowned out by
She falls prey to an overwhelming
slew of unwanted emotions, devouring
every last bit of dignity she has, forcing her to retreat to a place of solitude, her veil. A day in the sun is typically eradicated by a storm filled with rain and hail.
Forever, she's forced to conceal the true inclinations of her beautiful mind.
She has no choice but to carry on with
her daily grind.
She yells her safe
Word "rape", but there's no escape.
What is ripped and battered used
to be her magic cape.
She remains bound to the
norms that have long
been established, for
what once was hers
has been relinquished.
Her reluctance becomes
evident, through the
spilling onto her
canvas. Falling effortlessly, and
so elegantly, It is nothing but
a cry that will
never be heard.
She'll convince herself otherwise
but try as she might it
is everything but absurd.