The girl said she wanted to be a writer.

...

"Yes, but what do you want to do?"
the accountant asked,
eyes glazed over.

Too lazy to decipher scrawl,
she took to typing.
But graphite gratified,
thunderbolts struck her empty.
Nostalgic for
the soothing scratch of pencil
as a child cloistered,
shuffled between states,
who translated her life
to pass the days.

You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.

You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:
"Fire!"

Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.

Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.

Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."

You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."

The writer poured herself
a glass of wine,
to cloud her mind.

"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."

So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.

The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.  

Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.

"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."

So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****.