She has an airy room,
Tucked away near the attic,
And that is the way she wants it.
A shelf runs on the wall above her bed,
Filled with books of every genre,
Classical, fictional, sci-fi, and novels.
And her desk is in front of the window,
Bathed in sunlight,
All the untidy pieces of notebook paper,
Sticking out of folders,
And the never-ending supply of index cards,
Shoved in random plastic bags.
She has a drawer full of sticky notes,
A few sentences of lyrics,
And bits and pieces of poetry,
Hidden away in the dark.
And corkboard leaning against the wall,
Holds names of characters,
That she has never written about,
And possible lines from the heroine,
Facing the enemy for the last time.
Photographs of foreign places,
And pictures cut from fashion magazines,
Hide behind them,
Each part of a bigger picture,
One only the writer can see.
Her laptop is plugged in,
Charging before more inspiration hits,
And the keyboard becomes active.
She lays on her bed most days,
Staring through a skylight above it,
Spinning stories in her brain,
And forgetting the rest of the world.
Her “cool” older brother,
Thinks she is weird,
Hiding away near the rooftop\,
With no social status.
But her younger siblings love story time,
As she tells them things that some people dream of,
Such as magical brushes, pastel bunnies,
And wild water horses.
But if they opened her laptop,
They would find a story about a girl,
Who lived near the roof of an old house,
And who could fly.
But they wouldn’t believe it,
Because only writers can,
Believe that words on paper,
Have more power then ones said.