The Writer

The writer was always loneliest
When it was dark outside.
She sat in the night,
Alone,
Wreathed in silence and starlight.
The writer always felt different;
She always felt so alone,
So she took a pen to paper
And began to write a poem.
Soon, one became hundreds,
Line after line after line,
Trapping her sickness, her sorrow,
In pages of rhythm and rhyme.
She sealed it away,
Refusing to share,
Keeping Emotion on a leash--
A leash made of letters and words,
A leash she kept taut every day.
She shared her words with the world,
But few read them.
She shared her heart with the world,
But few noticed.
The writer held on to those words,
A lifeline to who she was,
But when she goes back and reads them,
She wonders if they were enough.
She's a lonely old soul, that writer,
Even though her body is young.
She seeks solitude in words,
But the writer always knew:
With all the many poems she wrote,
At least one was bound to reach you.