She preferred seclusion inside the unlocked cage.
She preferred to be hidden in clear sight as she ventured out
She preferred what some called a sickness,
A melancholy infection
Her anomalous existence.
She wasn't trying to crack the earth
Create the extraordinary from the burnt ashes of the ordinary
She wasn't held hostage by her inner demons
She wasn't being suffocated by depravity
There was no seductive devil knocking on her door.
Taunting her to trust him so he could devour her fractured soul.
There was no battle to be fought, no reward to be won
She preferred the eerie thought of an endless slumber
She preferred being quarantined within her own thoughts.
She preferred her only label to be "stranger".
YOU ARE READING
Wasted Ink
PoetryThe mediocre stylings of an amateur poet. Composed of Personal thoughts, feelings, and questions all come together in poetry form.
