Mascara running down her face.
At such a fast pace it’s her life she has ruined.
She is so perfectly made it’s almost a mystery.
She is constantly suffering
Her dreams crumble and fade.
She doesn’t realize she can do anything her mind wants to do.
She can paint, she can draw, she can write like a prodigy.
She gets lost in the pencil strokes of her never ending drawing.
The reappearing ghost that haunts her pages and she can perfect.
In honor of the band she praises.
It’s as if she missed the memo of when rehearsal started.
Wouldn’t hurt a soul, but is killing her mind.
Though she is sad and has lost all faith
She is still my best friend-- my never dying ghost.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!