Here in front of you
the poems she wrote
even the ones that made me chock
here is the knife that dug in to deep that has placed her beneath our feet
here are my tears that didn't help her all those miserable years
here are her scars that bleed as
bright as the shining stars
here is a black rose that
represents her dreadful close
all the things did no good
all because what had stood
a life of incomplete
had driven her to repeat
the life her mother lived
and now she has repeated sin.
