by Bryce Martin
The sunset comes, the sickness has begun.
She's not the only one, a quest, a search that must be won.
The darkness she seeks, no matter how small
the tunnel or pathway seems dreary or bleak.
On she puts her blushes and shades,
with brushes she paints away her true face.
To hide the real emotions at which her expressions betray,
portray shame, sickness, and disgrace.
With a smile in hand and her heart on her sleeve,
she begins her search, mobbing these streets.
With nothing to offer a plank she must walk,
after her fall, she must step some more.
Finally in a spot she settles to earn her keep,
or is it to feed the beast?
She gives her music, tells her-story, and shares her soul,
all for which she has no control.
The beast, it abides with a hunger,
a need to be satisfied.
She takes what she's earned, clenched in her fist,
white knuckles cold and bare, from the frightening thought,
that what was so difficult to earn, can be easily lost.
With need in her eye, relief on her mind,
and pain all around, she holds her anguish at bay.
With a monster to feed, the hour is late,
she hopes, she prays,
she bargains with fate that the sickness will abate
long enough to find the dark,
the blackness on which it feeds,
and for which she bleeds.
How she waits, oh how she waits,
to tingle again, but only for a time.
Does it diminish the pain?
Only to start the search for her sunset again.
When her mascara runs, when her mascara runs,
with only tears and the easy in front,
she longs for the hard way.