The cry that will never be heard

There she sits in
her solemn silence,
painting a crimson red,
with a slice to her wrist.
Every ounce spilling
onto her paper is another
cry that will never be heard.

Each sizemic Rhythm
complex vibrations
light trapped in prisms is
dissolved in a spectrum
of colored sorrow.

Again-and-again,
She falls prey
to an overwhelming
slew of unwanted emotions, devouring
every last bit of dignity she has, forcing her to
retreat to a place of solitude, her veil.
Forever, She's forced to hide the orgy of filth and
desires of her fragile mind.

There's no escape.

She remains bound to the
norms that have long
been established.
Her reluctance becomes
evident, through the
crimson red,
spilling onto her
canvas. Falling effortlessly, and
so elegantly, It is nothing but
a cry that will
never be heard.