insomnia is its own kind of madness
for when the world lies dead quiet
and your logic cannot sleep
you start to wonder
what starlight would taste like
if you drank it from the moon

we fell like the leaves
blew away in the wind
a warm heart only believes
that love will never end

i should have known
there would come a day
when the winds would blow
and birds would fly away

a bare branch heaves
swinging in the wind
there's no warm reprieve
the cold is setting in

She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.