Layla Riley-Hill Poet Rhyme

Her art, how tragic

She writes her stories in the ink of her blood
A scream. A shout. A wish to be understood

The cruelty of her world knew no bounds
Relinquishing a voice, she could make no sound
Her mind an encyclopedia, with her thoughts so loud 
Lost in silence, she is gone, she will never be found
A lonely soul, too tired - she drowned

In life, she was visible for her skin alone
Not for compliments, but to be mocked for her skin tone
She wanted to be seen, not just known
For someone to see what she couldn't own 
For once she wanted, for anyone, to be her very own backbone
She spoke, not through words, but by art
They erased her voice, but not the beat of her heart
She didn't need pen or paper to create, it was what set her apart
It was her canvas, so unique, that solidified her mark
It embodied expression, in how it scarred
How she reinvented what lies in the dark

The monsters in the shadows become tame
When the real horror, the real threat is to blame
Of a world, designed to shame 
Of a world, that aims to break and tame

A victim of uncontrolled circumstances 
A victim of penetrative glances
A victim of what happens when you exist in blackness
A victim to her own body, a canvas
Where her freedom dances
In her blood, she loses to madness
But that's what happens 
When black is consumed by envious clouds of darkness

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