The Shades Of Her Voice

Her pillow was her paper
When she broke like a wafer
Into powder and pieces
And she could never iron out her creases.

Her eyes; the reservoir of ink,
Burst open, turning her pink
And her tears flow down the refill;
Her cheeks, nothing more than flesh to the people.

And the pen writes on...

The many 'he', never ceased to stop
For they thought she was a corpse,
An insecure play toy, no feelings, no life,
And they conveniently stripped her with their blunt knife.

Now he, who called himself the master of life
Kept taking his aim, but barely got it right.
Death was his name, but he wasn't as pale
As she was when she saw him last night.

The pen wrote on but it's ink wasn't very bright
And this blind world, monotonously at night,
Needed a colour other than black and white
To stop turning a deaf ear to her plight.

Now the paper was her skin
And was hidden from her kin.
Her veins; the new reservoir of ink,
Were ruthlessly slit in the time of a blink.

The coloured ink showed well on her paper
Like little red stars, though it wasn't safer
But this brought to her a calming pleasure,
Although not, to the world and her confessor.

Mankind despised her way of expression
But she could do nothing else with her depression.
Her ink was her voice that flowed
In different coloured tones like she hoped.

The pain that ate her up from inside,
Never told the blind world how much she died
And although she doesn't have her revivor,
She stands up straight and says that
SHE IS A SURVIVOR!