A diction for whom

If there was a biography about you, what would the title be?

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She struggled hard

With a diction, for the crowd

Who would never know exactly how loud

Her thoughts were, a billowing shroud

Over her conscience, sounds

She did not make

As she gasped she thought, when does it stop

The voice that screams “just one more”

To quiet the silent storm, the tide

Engulfing her, once more

Before she’s squeezed

Inside a box with no name

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Trying to forget, she’s really quite weak

And what for? For whom does she weep?

For whom does she seek, the substances

She’s here, she tweaks

For the release, forevermore

A quiet end

Not one meant

For the books, but then

Neither was her existence

A crumpled pen

Writing nothing else

For she was spent

And broken

Leaving nothing behind for them

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