Hours turn to days As she stares at the empty page The writer within my must have left, she says Reminiscing about the the days when poetry seemed to be the skeleton key to her cage
Back when she could write about love Share her scars and comfort the neglected Person in the corner of the prison she called her soul She became a dove But the freedom was too much Pain seeping with every poem, She couldn’t post such One should only know so much...
Weeks turned to months And she’s back at it Pen to paper, defeat, she laughs at it Pen, grab it, Self pity and defeat I nabbed it
And now at her seat she will write Exposing scars and thoughts Certain to gradually take flight
And with thumbs to screen, She stares back At the prison that made her cry and scream But also gave her her knack. -theunicornflowerchild