Blue-inked pen with empty stationary
She scribbles another book
Of reality... but on the contrary!
But it's simply just mistook
As another tiny fairy-tale--
A story of pure imagination.
But how can she write so well
Things that are but fabrication?
Blue-inked pen and many lines
She writes them on her arms,
All the stories that dare to define
Every single quirk and charm...
But they look at it with blinded eye
Insist it's incomplete
And when the message is left to die
She writes of another defeat.
They think she's sickly obsessed
With the twisted and the bleak
Never know that she's obsessed
For acceptance's all she seeks.
Blue-inked pen with reddened tip
She's depressed and full of doubt
The saddened whispers pass her lips,
"They'll never know what I'm about."
And so she puts away her pen
Sadly lays herself to sleep,
Waits for it to write again
About the truths she dares to keep.