On the Passing of a Would-Be Poet

On the Passing of a Would-Be Poet

She spent her days
Believing in the gold mine
Beneath the gutter
Every one and every thing
She could never have
She spent her tragedy-battered nights
Alone,
Ample time for the contemplative vacuum

Grades don't make the girl
But they sure seem to work here,
The writing reads;
Having never given herself the chance to fail,
The taut rope of trophies yet to be named
Tightened with each passing year.
It stopped being pleasurable
Long before she asked for an end.

Peering into the now lifeless,
They see only reflections of their shadowed selves,
Her eyes having sacrificed their former smile to the powers that
be.
Little remains
Of the little she had as
Loved ones offer lip service
When it matters least,
Sobbing
She helped others see 'beautiful'
But remained incapable of reaching it herself
Sobbing
Some force tugged at this one,
Tortures whispered in the candled dark

Bleary-eyed
Grief-stricken
They wonder
When
She decided the flame would never be enough
And the faint echo reaches:
It stopped being pleasurable
Long before she got her end.