All she wanted to do was be heard.
And as she sat there,
staring at the blank computer screen,
fingers hovering over keys A, F, G,
quivering with the possibility of what could be,
The way she strung words together like a beaded necklace in her mind,
words like eloquence, evanescent, opulent ...
She couldn't make her fingers connect with her head.
Notebooks upon notebooks filled with
one-liners to kill,
beautiful combinations that she could never make fit,
scribbles of studies of what she wanted to do,
but what her parents would never approve of.
Poetry isn't a profession.
Writing is a hobby.
How will you make money?
It'll never amount to anything.
As she began to type, the words began to flow,
like water from her fingertips,
her liquid confession.
The ink began to drip,
staining pale pages with pledges and pleading and promises,
begging for understanding.
Spinning tales of passion like a spider's web,
she wrote of the sun.
Of the moon,
and of all the stars in between.
She wrote of love,
Of things she dared not say aloud.
And as she completed this confession,
she signed her name,
poignantly, fervently, elooquently...
And hoped for that new begining
that she'd always been afraid of.