Your Very Own Cyanide

She had a writer in her heart

And poetry in her veins

She should have been honest from the start

But was bound by invisible chains.

Her voice never spoke of

The beauty that remained

Or how she saw the world with love

Her mind kept her heart restrained.

She waited for the right time

But the right time never came

She overdosed on verse and rhyme

Longed for change but stayed the same.

So the writer slowly died

And her veins became dry

She mourned him and cried

But now it was too late to try.

The beauty faded 

Until she was black inside

Completely and utterly jaded

Empty and red eyed.

Poisoned by tainted ink

She vomits whenever she tries to speak

No longer capable of reason, no longer can she think

Only now she realises being a writer is not for the weak.