Her mind is racing
From the past,
to the present,
to what the future
might hold for her
Or what it might not
Knowing that she has so
many things to do but
Not having the energy
To move her feet
So there she sits,
Pen in hand
Paper in front of her
A mere scribe looking
for the outlet she needs
searching for a way to
make these lucid thoughts
leave her demented head
needing to release these
words before they turn
into murderous actions
yet she knows that it is
only a temporary solution
someday there will be no pen,
no paper in front of her
just the emptiness that
mocks her darkened soul
someday she won't have
this outlet to turn to
she wonders about that day
about what will happen then
she sighs...
no one knows
