Inside her eyes are tainted
the conscience never so sainted.
The Sorrow and pain inflicted by the others,
hurts much more than murderous mothers,
The hurt that they told,
are to fault that her soul she sold.
Forgiveness is never forgave,
Braveness always ends up grave.
And the blood that she brought from her razored hand ,
was never released from its unceasing demand.
All through her life she tried,
For the day she would eventually drift with the tide,
Armed with a michevous smile,
and a witty sense of style.
Of course the day never came,
and each and every day was always the same,
No voices inside of her mind,
exept from those who tried to find,
the key to her soul,
hoping to build her whole.
She was always broken,
although she never showed it ,
loud mouth confidence, heart so firmly split.
No one ever showed they cared , not even one bit.
