She is

She is Van Gogh,
depressed and starving,
dying and broke,
brilliant and unrivaled.
Her vision is ahead of herself
The world slowly crawling
without knowledge of direction
Latching on to her like a small child
to her mother's hands
Blindly scraping her knees
on the cement she has painted.

She is Bach,
known for the wrong things,
unknown for her talent,
striving and pushing.
Her sound, a melodic lullaby,
calming and soothing the world,
hectic and bustling through,
without rhythm or uniqueness,
she attempts to sing
to those covering their ears
a song out of their range.

She is Poe,
dark and cynical,
pessimistic and morose,
methodical and revolutionary.
She smiles, this Annabel Lee,
with a heart so divine and pure,
that a world egocentric
fails to notice the timid words
that escape her trembling lips
and thinks of her as silent
and unfit for her own pages.

She is
an artist,
a composer,
a poet,
a woman
without fear
living in
anonymity