She was a poem with rhymes and rhythm,
someone whose secrets are hidden.
Her faithful friend was her pen,
an object who witnessed her veiled shenanigan.
She was a poem that only a few can understand.
Someone private and hard to comprehend.
The papers are her companion at night,
forming her thoughts as her pen took flight.
She was an unfinished poem hiding traumas behind the pages.
Unraveled emotions and tears are hidden inside her cages.
Millions of thoughts keep her awake at night,
shadows lurking in the dark are her mighty knight.
She was a poem written in bloodied ink,
the quill was painted in a crimson hue of pink.
Her hands were a fine masterpiece of pain,
molding word after word of emotions that are not certain.
She was a poem made out of questions,
the exclamatory and ellipses of emotions.
Her rhythm will remain spectacular and enchanted,
for she was a poem extraordinarily crafted.