Watch her thrash and scratch her throat
Like a worthless junkie who overdosed
Watch her struggle between ecstasy and pain
Inside are voices who are never heard
She shuns everyone without a word
She wears a crown of thorns atop a mutilated brain
Clawing and scratching at her skin
Desperate for help for her struggle within
Everything she ever touches fails
Every night she spins a knife
And contemplates taking her life
Trying to determine what is truly hell
Acting out her broken dreams
Her past and her future, and things in between
A possessed saint atop imagined fires
Sanity hangs from a minuscule string
A ready made burned offering
For a muse who ties the wire
Into a knot so perfectly tight
For a noose of the night
She weeps and mourns for her
But she’s still gone
As she has been for so long
So long even she’s not sure
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem