This poem still seems unfinished . . . any suggestions are welcome. Sorry about the format. The site is being weird

Broken she lay motionless

Except for the occasional solitary tear

Which crawled down her cheek

Her heart was beating

But she felt dead

She took a scrap of paper and a pen

And scribbled down little letters

Bearing her pain through the ink

It was if her soul had been pierced

And the poetry that she wrote

Was what she bled