Her first book was at the age of four

When she finished she ran through the door

Couldn’t wait to show you her book

Starting the memory that you didn’t look

In school, she scribbled notes that would rhyme

To you, it was a childish crime

Graduated with a degree in Nursing

All with her hearts mind cursing

Many years passed with a poetic hobby

Blurred words leaving her mind foggy

Wide awake, alone and thinking

Her mind, to you, forever sinking

She lays awake in the dead of night

Listening to her hearts mind fight

This life she leads, stitched on her sleeve

Waiting for her time to succeed

Her poetry scribbled line after line

Knowing each verse following each rhyme

Poe, Hawthorne, Orwell and Twain

Were the ones that kept her sane?

These writers were of the weirdest sort

The drinks they drank and the drugs they’d snort

Why couldn’t she write as writers did?

Expressing her mind, again as a kid

Maybe now is the time she could write her book

And then like the men, the whole world would look!

Though, in the morning she was found still and at peace

Scattered blank pages of a hearts mind deceased