Worn out leather diary.
A story of long ago.
A legend of the secret.
The one that grows deep into our minds.
And in it she wrote:
   Stone blocks shining out the light.
   Keeping me safe....so cold.
   Small little tower walls.
   Society with the key.
   With nothing but my thoughts.
   Empty.
   Bare.
   I only have these pages.....I write with my blood.
   Live on, my memory.
   For no one can understand.
   Shouting out my being.
   Alone. 
   No one is listening.
   Do they know that I am truly gone?
   Do they care?
   Done so much....so unappreciated.
   But who am I?
   Am I somebody really?
   Do I exist?
   Or is this my imagination?
   And I truly don't know what I am?
   A lost source of life.
   Trapped within these walls.
   Running my fingers over the cutting, cold stone.
   Feeling nothing or the pain.
   Nothing beyond this.
   Hopelessly in love with nothing.
   Conquered with jealousy and hate......