She's what they call beautiful:
Bright blue eyes and a vibrant smile.
Proud of her independence,
And her open shamelessness.
She wants to break the mold.
She reaches for the flickering flame,
Ready to explore the world.
Wide-eyed curiosity,
And unmatched bravery,
But living burns the soul.
She's an angel with tattered wings.
She's an angel with shattered dreams.
Yet she picks herself back up,
No, she's not giving up.
She's fought too hard to let go now.
She's what they call beautiful:
Quiet eyes and a wistful smile.
She doesn't say a word,
And yet you know she's hurt,
Consumed by what she feels.
She reaches for the flickering flame,
Wiser now, this time.
She holds her head up high;
Won't let you see her cry.
Each passing day, she heals.
She's an angel with mending wings.
She's an angel with dawning dreams.
And she picks herself back up.
No, she's not giving up.
She's fought too hard to let go now.















Comments
It could do with a soft ambient background though (just a suggestion)
--
Pragmatism, not idealism.
it's nice to read something like this from you, really
the writing's great....as always
--
Wohl dem Volke, das keine Helden braucht
Oh, nice thumbnail too, it really fits the piece.
--
What?
~ Skada ~
--
"And when we think we lead we are most led." - Lord Byron
Life is art.
Bodies Under Siege
It's beautiful
Great job, -Julie
--
smile for me
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