She is a Writer

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Words so tragic,
Letters of magic,
She spins
A web so well
She would put
Any writer to shame,
Or elicit a nod
Of pride
From her kind,
And force a clap
From brooding eyes,
And a thumbs up
From the wonder keeper.
Her brain is a marvel
Of thoughts insane
And she chugs it
Like an engine,
Her heart beats through a pen then,
It smiles on a piece of paper,
Or cries when she doesn’t,
She has a story in her
That gurgles and paints
On a canvas of the blues,
And yet her hues
Don’t carry the smudges
Of a foretold future.
Rolled up in herself
Like a turtle shy,
She might let you
Have a furtive glance
At her golden heart,
A peek into the unsaid,
But not the unthought
Voices her insides shout,
And you would fall for her,
It can’t be helped,
All the life in her
Sings with vibrant colours,
And if death were there
On the crossroad ahead,
You would change your course
To read her book
To die at the final page.
She bears stars in her ink,
See them shooting
To make a silent wish
To be wed into her tale,
And she might let you
If she weren’t the devil
To your crazy fancies,
And you wonder about her art,
When will it start
To stop hiding in her cart,
And come out for the world one day,
But that’s what she is scared of most,
She can’t be shared with,
For she is her very own mistake.

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