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.

The girl said she wanted to be a writer.

...

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

Blank canvass,
Then colour brings it to life
Shades and tones scratch in to picture
It bleeds creativity,
Moments become minutes
Which consume the hours of the day,
A picture is formed by
Impressions,
Outlines ,
Engraving.
Life upon the page,
One last brush stoke, shading put there
Complete,
But what did my brush strokes create
A hand, as if  reaching out the page
Ominous,
Distressing,
Sinister,
Is what covered this canvas of white
To look upon it,
"Did my eyes deserve me"
Moving forward as if to clench
I move, but to slow
As what was inanimate,
Now paint drips off as it has hold
Upon my hand,
The paint seeps up as I am consumed
By the canvas
Holding on to the frame,
My finger scratch upon the wood
As I scream,
The terror frozen within the paint,
I am but brush stokes
My face painted on canvas
The hand upon my shoulder
I am cold now,
I am for eternity now the paints prisoner,
The hand is my guard
Such vivid brushstrokes
As if she painted fear upon the canvass
A master piece of cloth and paint
Not knowing I am trapped now for eternity
Terror painted within this frame.

This days name is special
The world no longer is forlorn
Celebration amongst the many
Love and laughter has been born

There's a crispness in the air
On this,the mortal side of life
The newest fairy to be born
In a magic dust cloud she arrived

Such beauty in the sparkle
Of this the greatest of fairy smiles
Melts the hearts of those that love
The meaning of this new born child

A day like this, there is no other
Letting all our worries go
Coming together for celebration
On this day "special" as it's now known