The day has ended, and night has come. The worthless hours put into nothing at all.. Lights all on her now. It goes on and on... and won't stop. She keeps writing, what she feels... The pain inside of her, which she must hide to stay alive. The pen keeps going... She is lost and can't think. Her mind has done all the thinking, never her broken heart. She doesn't believe in herself, when others say they love her. They all run in fright when she comes in need. Paper lined up all around her. Stuck in a dark corner, she is put there, untill he comes to save her. She's lost all hope, it's written all over her. The wind could break her now. Ending it all isn't the answer.. But the pen keeps going on... Not knowing what will come up next in her mind.. The trees give a golden glow, when she walks by. She only wanted to be loved, but all she got was thoughts others filled her head. It's too late, but the pen keeps at it, because her twisted mind she was given keeps crying out lies she must write. The dark deep purple lines show up under her eyes. She hasn't slept in months, just look at her. She's tired and all cut up. Even her silver cloke can't hide her lies anymore.. She's a dead give away, too easy to take over. Blinded by the tears that have came into her eyes, she can't even see what she is. The pen has took over her mind. She's forced to write. It's just too much in her days, nothing won't stop. They don't understand how she is, when she gets in her own darken world. They never will, because they just laugh. But she has them in awe when they read her work. Her back is broken, her arms just flow with the wind. Her hair falls on her face, and her head is up, looking at this world. She gave it her all, and will get nothing in return. Ever. The paper burns in the blue fire. All her hard life is dead. The pen falls before her own green eyes, pouring out blood. It is her own. Her wasted life to entertain people is now over, because they threw her life away. Her life was the papers she had written. She looks deeply into the fire, watching as they laugh at her and her papers. She picks up the pen, thinking what to do with it... She wants to burn it, but doesn't, because all poets leave their trade mark, right? She placed down that pen, with more papers on her desk, and sat down. She wrote one very last thing and faded away. Her writing days are now long gone and dead, as she is..
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