A Writers Tale

Here I stand,  24, feeling less than alive... Trying to hide behind the light even though the light is exactly what illuminates the lies I tell myself, When I'm awake in a personal nightmare which is both creating a beauty beyond belief and also crushing all the beauty that had previously been, Such backwards logic, unjust thinking, You can't hide behind that which illuminates.  I once saw the world with a glimmer of hope, a belief that everything works out on the whole, I felt wonder in all shapes and forms,  Nobody was truly evil, nobody was truly as bad as the world made them seem, I was just a girl, shrouded in dreams, Of a world that may never be...  Silly of me, really...  For perfection lies between the lines of imperfection.  I see this now... There is no such thing as a more perfect world than that of which we live, I am just a girl,  a tiny insecure blim of nothingness...  And I am wishing and praying...

The Violet flame, Protection, but destruction just the same, The high flyer, supreme diver Flying higher and higher, Lighting up the skies, with divine intimate light, Shining bright, an eternal flame of creation, Of inspiration and passion The breath of the dragon, The calm of chaos, The dearest crest of divinity, She who flies fearlessly through the night, Fighting off the demons of darkness, Burning the hands of the unworthy, Blessing and protecting the worthy. She, the Violet phoenix, one of a kind, Flying the dark abyss, lighting up all for the deserving to see, And finally, no longer caged... She was free