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She was created by the darkness, from the death-like swirls came her personality, her face, everything she is, was, will be, and never has been.  All will be touched by her, have been touched by her, will never know who she is, only as a vioce, a shadowed figure slumped in the corner.
She has been calloused by harsh words, bruised over and walled in to protect all that may once have been hurt, and still she loves them all, loves to the point of a bitter hatred.  And she wrote.  Any who knew her, know her, have seen her write, a small notebook never leaving her sight, her hand constantly cramped from tightly holding the pens, scribbling meaningless, important words across a torn, dog-eared piece of paper.  She once tried to open up to them, let them read her words, let them know how she feels, because she writes the truth, the lies, the emotions of the world that none other can see but the simple poet, and she let them read, and she told them what they should know, what they need,
And they laughed, they torn her heart out, still bleeding, and stomped on it, insult to injury.  Never once did she recieve a moment of peace, always looking over her shoulder, they were, never letting her write, and all she had was her notebook, her notebook and a pen and ten dollars in her pocket.
Her notebook was full now, some pages smudged with fallen, falling, tears, tears she never let them see. Words are all wrong, she wrote them right, made them flow, made harsh, cold truthes beautiful, so beautiful they became poetry, simplicity, perfection.  And she sold them, some were stolen, most stolen, who wanted to buy what they could take for free.  And so it was that she lost all faith in man kind, she lost her will to be among them, she sold a final poem, and nearly sold her soul to end the misery, a life paid for with it's own blood,
but she couldn't, not when she'd come so far, touched so many people, so few lives, someday they could undersatnd, and she would make them.  Again she picked up the pen, a torn, dog-eared piece of paper, and words, music, beauty, poured forth from the end of misery, a new day, new chance, new begining.  To write again, to send her message to the masses in the form of poetry, of liturature, a new chance for them to understand what happens when physical sight is left behind, volenteering blindness, to truely see the world, colours becoming emotions, textures of the soul,
Realizing no one is happy, no one is free, and yet we are all happy, ignorance is bliss to the uneducated population, to all who live this life.
Is the emptiness inside her inside you?  Is it hunger or is it fear?  Can you hear her over the silence?