The Melancholic Tales of a Broken Soul

Skinny, hopeless, wretched and wronged,
an anorexic child once waltzed with death.
She took his hand, and learned the steps,
reeking profoundly of his drug-stained breath.
She is broken, beaten, imprisoned, and lost;
for she's been dancing for so long.
A fast ticket to drugs- a trip,
a stumble, several chaotic songs.
She cries like a child with a broken lip,
unable to find a mother's kiss.
There are no stars to light her way,
no melody to make her stay.
No hope to fill her tattered heart,
only a gun to tear her life apart.
Shaking, she holds her new best friend;
mind-sick, she eyes her phone;
how long has it been? Her daughter
she cries; for she is a mother of bone.
Might a coffin's corpse return home,
after dying and rotting alone?
Might a true mother be made,
after the high price she'd paid?
Could she have regained her former glory,
oh, could she have prayed?
To see her smiling face, to
find what she'd misplaced?

Merciful is Heaven, but Hell is where they stay;
these souls in agony, these spirits of clay.

Gently, he lured her, whispering blood
tales of a daughter she could have born.
Gently, she pulled her trigger, to his delight;
and in his arms, she joined the night.
She searched Heaven, and she searched Hell,
but her daughter's name never rung a bell.
Her broken soul, again constricted;
for her lovely daughter, had never existed.