Her words do not reveal her

They give her choice of passage,

And sometimes fool those around her

As she rambles on to salvage

A broken heart given out

To the rude and rugged savage.

A fool;

She, always used as the poor man’s tool.

A shot at love, the word used wrong.

And the bell tolls above her mind.

But strip me down to my soul

Far beneath the flesh so shallow;

Finding there the slice of truth

Detained deep beneath my marrow.

I, that girl that writes of sorrow

When all is truly well.

But words spring forth when the chest is hollow,

When the heartbeat none can tell.