[Objective]

Destiny: Blue

Her hearts a musician starving for fame.
She's been bombarding her name to go on a mission,
cus her pupiled emerald vision told her to listen
with conditioned precision to blame.
Then spoonfed degrees that corrupted the flame.
Got guns out, but shunned doubt is blank ammunition,
a stimming tradition with no meals in the kitchen.
There's no need when you're not living for one,
while sealing the deal; knowing her niché isn't for fun;
along with squealing hints that the richest will bond.
This girl won't sell superstition in exchange
for the strange and deranged form of a world
in chains that pave way for a prison in pain,
and stories untold.
Sore, broken and cold,
yet winners applaud sinners accepting their Cain/lord
as contradictions unfold.
No yearning for change except coin-sweeping in Hell,
I place bets on her wishes... That she's meaning it well.
...
On it went with seeking a crash course in treating the rash noise defeating
a past voice that's beating that last void of a mind-
that used to find devoid reasons to season masked force
with gravy that's been aiding and shaming her lately,
to the angelic tunes of a corpse that's been abused
and ignored.
Even her soul is a fiend to being annoyed,
and clued to the truce of a muse that accused her for more.
Some say that she's due cus she used to live for the score.
Yet she wrote knowledge in code,
that's crack for her age!
No titled descriptions in vain for emotions she owed.
No maybe's, I'm saying her self got betrayed,
with reflections delayed
while connecting the nodes.
Lightness is
a fighter alone,
carving the past to righteousness
stone.
A siren honing a
marvelous tone
is requiring the fire
that's harmful to some.
...
Atmosphere: Rainy.
as the book turned and burned with doubts
and hope leaning on crazy,
another character traded!
An amateur faded
and feigning for blood.
Yet elegant,
Zany.
She nipped the seed at the bud,
a greedy purse seine.
Constrained it got learned with aim to be earned,
she covered it bravely.
A concord spiritual on board to empower the rage,
then cut beasts from the leash that was tied to her cage.
Realizing how to get the conscious contained
is concocting the sane stitches with the needle that hits
skin-deep:
it's the souls version of slitting your wrists.
Do you think it's a misdeed?
Cut the thread of dying corals,
uncover the why in morals,
see the spirit of which veins
that fuel society's hissed feats,
say hi to Ms. Laurel!
But who listens to pissed teens?
The eye of the storm isn't something you borrow,
yet to exist is.
Loving the strict needs. Mince "alas",
bow but no arrow on stripped leads
from Catholic priests to mantras of Inshallah's.
Rope in the scope to cloak any reason to vent,
then list dreams in a dying attempt to find hope in contempt.
Don't poke stress, or the morning is spent.
A reason to cope less
is no less than protests from hopeless monsters touring Crow's mess.
So she nurtued love's nest.
...
The only way this girl would fail to heal her pond lily heart
is the barred notion to not know who you really are.