Gabrielle's bouts of creativity

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Here lie the sputterings that I produce, usually associated with insomnia or boredom. These testiments of sanity, or insanity if you chose to see it that way are the inner workings of my soul. you may loathe it, or worhip it, but you'll never stop it.

A self reflection, to whom those who understand

There is a girl with a pentacle
Tied tought around her neck
A matching braclet and ring
Hanging delicately around her hand
Figner fingers pale
With the first days of death
Black nail polish chipping away
Reflecting her hatred
Of her darkness and of course
The pressing winter months

Her hair falls down her back
The tips swaying against the bed
Touching down ever so gently
Like the branches of a willow tree
Brunette as it were, nothing special
With highlights of dark red
Spread throughout the brown
An auburn mix, in the finals stages

Ever changing eyes, like the sea
A deep blue, with green flecks
And a washed out, faded stare
Filled with memories of tears
Long lost princes, fallen from grace
And their accompanying princesses
Of barely making it through
Yet, making it all the same
These things burned permantely
Into this fragile young girl

Her heart beats quickly
Behind her tiny rib cage
She is barely even 14 years old
But her soul is that of one
Far older then her
Its bursting with love for him
Ready to explode, and look
Here it comes, like the shooting
Stars ,Or fireworks setting off
The sounds of summer
In this cold dark bedroom

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Gabrielle's bouts of creativity