She was a poetry piece
Wrapped up in obsession
And all the other scandalous desires
Her writer was possessed with
And she hated it
Her eyes loathed the writer's breath
As his pen strolled down her neck
Right down to the outline of her breasts
"You create me?
Only to violate me?"
She thinks
"I'm entitled to an opinion!"
It's the illusion of the ink
That can give the paper character
When it's no different from a brick
That can tear up your eyes
As that last romantic movie did
Watching the actor's performance
You could hardly stop to blink
You could hardly stop to think
Emotions making reality
Distorted in a sense
Just like how the writer made..
You believe in her innocence
When she herself is made up
From the writer's...

That is not the point
The writer curving out her joints
She tries to shy away
But her legs are not done
At this point
Her hips, her lips
His look, her hiss
Just make it stop
His eyes watering in desire
The man, she had first admired
She cannot move
He makes the rules
Her protests ungrateful
And outright rude
He sets the pace
Controls the mood
She wants to run
But the page is done
He corners her
His hand in hers
Her fright and panic
Consuming her
The line is crossed
Her eyes once beautiful
Radiate now a cold like frost
She wished for warmth
She couldn't have
For that was not
The writer's plan
For that is not
The writer's plan