There is poetry inside of me,
That no paper can ever handle,
So it clings to ever spare part of me,
Enchanting, mysterious and beautiful.
It has such power that simple paper,
Would burn from the force of it,
All about a quiet girl with curly hair,
Who was thought to be a misfit.
It is not the type of poetry for paper,
Because paper is not the thing to hold,
Such powerful war-starting words,
That this misfit girl told.
Some poetry is not for paper,
And some only is because it lacks the passion,
That is outlining every single letter,
In this one.