She was damaged, that, her work could conclude.
But then again, no artist was truly ever a happy soul.
Their prose and music and art stemmed from their broken minds.
A bleeding heart, their core.
She resided in her dark, unhappy place.
Making it her home, letting it engulf her.
She was her last musical piece.
Her essence fueled her art.
On the nights she danced, she enacted her destruction.
Her words, her only friends.
She wasn't unhappy in the truest sense.
Just sad.
She let her art sail her away.
She wasn't her destination, but the journey.
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