*Scritch* *Scratch*
For hours upon
hours on end.
The sound is created
by the tip of her pen.
Hand flying down the page,
her thoughts are transferred.
Written in poetic verse,
she's found a way to be heard.
Her pen is loyal, never writing
what she doesn't want to share.
Always at hand,
Always there.
The fire inside her
is too great to contain.
Words create her art,
painting the passion
that flows through her veins.
When that pen reaches the paper,
a story is told.
A story that burns the soul,
just waiting to get out,
just waiting to be known.
Read her thoughts,
and you will hear her life,
whispering softly of
love, hope, grief and strife.
For hours upon
hours on end.
The sound is created
by the tip of her pen.
Hand flying down the page,
her thoughts are transferred.
Written in poetic verse,
she's found a way to be heard.
Her pen is loyal, never writing
what she doesn't want to share.
Always at hand,
Always there.
The fire inside her
is too great to contain.
Words create her art,
painting the passion
that flows through her veins.
When that pen reaches the paper,
a story is told.
A story that burns the soul,
just waiting to get out,
just waiting to be known.
Read her thoughts,
and you will hear her life,
whispering softly of
love, hope, grief and strife.



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