A shadow of silhouettes

Pitch (Not) Perfect

Pitch (not quite) perfect
There she sat
Shivering,
Hyperventilating
Trying to maneuver her dislocated gushing throat, with bandages
Her bony arms of death
Wrapped her up in a tight knot
As she began to fall endlessly
Her pitch was low
Cold as a whisper in a blizzard
She sat in complete distress as she bore the pain of not being heard

In hopes of a voice
One that could erupt and give her speech
She wrote a letter to the world
That never wrote back to her
Somehow, she got used to not being heard
Nor noticed, as she found fault without end
And did completely nothing to mend
The agonies which were now her preferred change of garments
Her being shriveled and turned livid
As she spoke in brail
Leaving her soft voice to bounce around in complete awe

The disdain calmness in her voice
Was like a martyr, hounded in chains
Leaving empty areas hallow and deep
As if there were threads spread from a sea of fire.

She thought of herself as hidden casket or a simple white dress
Sending melted jellies and postcards with no address
To all wondering lost souls
It was a serious language of mischief
Leaving droplets of sheer sanity and vision
Yet, almost without flinching they were half imagined realities all made up
In the mind of a girl whose pitch was not quite perfect