weapon of choice

 WEAPON OF CHOICE
she, full of emotions,
flow freely from her weapon of choice
with clear and sincere words, her pen does write
But in her mind stands a figure that breaks her chain of thought.
He enters her thoughts and sullies her privacy,
to find that she is dominated by an authentic passion for life,
which flows in her veins mixed with blood and grit, giving strength to her soul.
He has so much power over her mind. It comes from her hell of  days gone by.
Sometimes feeling that she is dying alive, and her only hope is  death.

She calls the living dead her friends, the living, her enemies.
How many times when she laughs, also does she cry.
Her soul is screaming, when her face laughs.
He is always there, when she closes her eyes,
when she opens the window,
he is the image in the palm of her hands,
what people see in her eyes.is just a disguise

On this dark and dreary night,
pulsation of death,
and ridiculous promises of love and forever. dreams nothing but NIGHTMARES in her cloud of eternal darkness.
A red line drawn through dreams of new,whats the point, they never come true.

With her magical view of the world at large
this pen of hers,
she wields like a sword, trying to make them even more beautiful. some are sad and forlorn
some are erotic, and not for the innocent born.
A delicate sheen, covers her soft eyes
making her sad, down and out.
Her cheeks,pale and sunken, old weathered and torn.

she's told you before, and she'll tell you now:
you're in her mind, with no way of escape,
people have ripped out her soul,
not took the time to listen for her to be understood
dying slowly but surely kissing the invisible lines of death.
the reaper is her friend, they chat every night.
take me I'm yours she recites night after night, with the only reply a chuckle oh no my darling, its not your time yet.
Her feelings that enter into forbidden land, make her distant, aloof no fun.
Something strangely happened, she fell in love with a vision unknow to the soul it belonged
a new confrontation with the death of this love not returned.

She is someone who will not like to see you cry.
A pair of hands that do not Know when you tremble with the possibility of love.
Here she has learned to laugh with tears, and to cry with laughter.
It is useless her heart with only fragments of you. she has let go , giving her the panics being alone... living...
existing , but alone.

her weapon of choice is her pen in hand. a powerful tool, for the broken inside, allowing the blood of wrong doings flow, down onto the paper of white, no longer death to be feared, but to be rejoiced and endeared, the older she gets, the happier she is.
Darkness her friend, her lover, her kin.