How bizarre is it for one
To sit on their hardwood bedroom floor, black ink bleeding from their pen onto lined college ruled paper?
She never liked words, she never liked reading, and books were her ennui.
She transmuted from a letter to a word, from a word into a sentence and from a sentence into a well-developed paragraph.
People fine it funny how she is now writing a book.
Because they didn’t understand her when she orally said it, but when she turns it into something soulful they post comments on how they faithfully read it and they loved it, how they want more.
How they just love the words that she’s pulling out of her dresser drawer.
All she needs is one side of a piece of paper when some people need a thousand pages to express how they feel, they want to play pretend like they are into as well
But they don’t understand, not just anyone can do this, these feelings are real!
Her words would make you cry, they have naysayers asking the latest bloggers and gossipers to find out what she’s holding inside. How can trigger their emotions, the ones that are so deep?
Too bad they will never find out, she will never tell them, she can only tell the people who could read it in their sleep.
Those soothing words that flow from her blood could even make the Joker cry, believe me I know, I’m a living witness.
Just give her one stanza; she could make you feel like your whole life was just a dream. She was only thirteen when she fell in love with poetry
How could someone so…immature and ignorant take words and become so mature and knowledgeable, that’s a transmutation at its finest.
Writing poetry is not a sinecure, ask any poet
It’s like having one fabric torn into one-million pieces and you have to contemplate how your’re going to sew it.
She is in love with what she does, putting meaningful words together for the word to read it is like a dream come true.
It’s no secret that she has journals, school notes and binders filled of my work, she writes so much that sometimes it hurts. You can trust me I know.
Before she had this, she was deeply depressed, her feelings began to spill everywhere, she couldn’t even clean up her own mess.
She loves how she gets to pick and choose what she wants to say, one word can express her whole day.
Too let you in on a little secret she has told me how happy she is that she can’t deny, but sometimes she feels like she is ready to die.
Then I give her, her favorite pen and journal and with the pen as her weapon and the paper as her victim she turns her emotions from internal to external.
It does not take a bird much to soar.
When a chick begins to fly, its wings are flapping all over the place, it has not balance,
When a poet begins to write, their thoughts are all over the place, words begin to spill out all over the paper, they have no guidance
Give them their weapon, show them the victim, send the off with a little guidance and a sprinkle of balance and you have nothing, but perfection at your threshold.