Music is her therapy, Singing along to the lyrics overrides suicidal thoughts. This crowd is a murder of crows little one, remain still and dont make a sound, they prey on vulnerable souls like you.
Death is opulance, lucky are those that busk in the full glory of oblivion... except her silence is a loud siren... "notice me " she whispers under the blanket of her own misery.
She writes sad poems and squeezes blood out from her wrists to add the final touch to her painting, it's almost complete. All she has is her music.
How did she get here? She was called fat and ugly do you remember? She was called stupid and too dark do you remember? She was told she wasn't pretty enough.
Remember when she was told she wasn't rich enough?.... do you remember? I do, I remember seeing you put her down constantly and pelting her with insults, I can still hear your condescending laughter as you mocked her. Look at that unmarked grave... did you know she died an orphan? - Menzi Buthelezi
YOU ARE READING
Sweet Darling
PoesíaWhen we feel all alone, lost and out of place. What if nobody reaches out to try to save us?
