A grin played upon her lips as pictures formed in her mind:
Iron spikes piercing through her entire torso from the inside
Lungs submerged with sweetest blood by just one grand tide,
To give her the peace she so longed for but never could find.
Weary of the outer world, blonde belle was always first to say
That every outcast finds greater glory than society elsewhere,
Within realms of imagination or nature only to her eyes fair
And that her crooked and savage mind never led her astray.
The Orient of her lips and mellow voice ever won her ovations
When she would pretend to be someone reaching for the sky;
But her amber eye always knew she wanted to bleed herself dry,
It was the emerald one, wizard of Oz, that kept up her illusions.
Honey stole drapes from her grandmother's closets to have fun
They smelt like the deceased when she held them to her face:
She would reenact every tragedy she knew with majestic grace
And for every death slashed her wrist until she came undone.
Yet she never forgave herself the sins to which she'd agreed
Spending a lifetime in prayers that no one would resemble her,
And in her sepulchre she choked on frankincense and myrrh
That dispelled all her visions of gore as she was finally freed.
AN: My poetry never makes sense anymore, I mean to me it does but I think it seems forced and tense, and doesn't flow well…the meaning and the rhymes clash…blech…I suck.