1914, London you gave birth to a tease,
Fifth of seven children,
A victim of her own unease,
Formed herself against everything in her bewildering.

1932, what a disgrace to her family,
Shocked them with her flattering hair,
Shocked them with her handshakes so clamilly,
Only to wake up as an exhibition, isn’t that unfair?

1934, love knocked on her heart core made of wood,
It welcomed itself into her dejected soul,
Infront of her a man of  evil stood,
He took her hand and threw her in a black hole.

1939, Bloodshed was constructed in his rough hands,
She only wanted to take a dip in the waters of his ocean-blue eyes,
Couldn’t bare to look at the obliteration of her lands,
So she pulled the trigger in behalf of her demise.


About whatsername

Sadness somehow squeezed itself into this decomposed heart of mine and as soon as it stepped into the lonely rooms of my soul all doors shut bringing home a present of infinite winter. A legend once said to paint beamish words on a piece of paper so sadness may find it's place on a shelf between made up stories and ring the truth of infinite sadness. View all posts by whatsername

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