Everything she writes has life
all words are there for her,
each creation a little piece
of art that she must capture.

All rave at such great talent
why her life, it must be grand.
To be able to write such things
each poem flowing from her hand.

The sites she much have seen
the life that she must lead,
how wonderful she is
a prodigy indeed.

While inside herself she dies
a slow death, each poem more pain.
More words to fulfill a dream
hopelessy failing again.

No one understands
for each word she pays a price,
another piece of life
another feeling cut and sliced.

Inside she feels nothing
it all comes out in prose.
It's all that she has left,
sadly it's all she knows.

WhiteRose