With every little spill comes another written page –
She fades in the light, and in the same she thrives,
Because even a little heat is needed to survive.
She can’t begin to explain what goes on in her head;
All the words she laces with experiences she dreads.
And yet they look at her, and have the nerve to say:
“It’s time to grow up, and the present cannot stay.”
She doesn’t fear the future, she just knows the past
And the present means nothing if it fails to last,
But no matter what they say, she listens to their advice…
Though she never uses it because they fall short to entice.
And all of her wants along with all she requires
Are the things she knows disappointment desires.
So some days she decides to drop to her knees
And stare at the sky, the only graceful tease;
The more vast the world is, the more she feels at home
Because she knows that being small is a part of being alone;
In her mind there is no such as silence
Because there’s a rhythm of strength in all that is violent
And though she knows that a prisoner is never free,
She knows that any crime is better than to be
The one person who knows that they could do right
And backs down because they’reafraid of the plight.
So she doesn’t mind at the way they stare,
Or their words that reveal no motives to care.
She sits in her mind and watches with those eyes
That can see everything and nothing that people despise
And she writes in her books, on her arms, on her heart,
And with her being she creates the art.
And it’s there to remain for the rest of our days
Because art will never change the image it portrays.