There once was a little artist who did use her paintbrush well,
she took it everywhere with her, making magic, speaking spells.
When the darkness would overcome, with twinkles twinkling bright
she would settle down and watch, waiting for the fright.
And when her fiendish friend arrived she didn't scramble nor did she scream,
Instead she took her brush in her palm with it, creating a screen.
A small blanket to cover her small eyes while her dark antagonist remained
would shield her from the fright of mystery, the suffering from pain.
And as the girl grew her skill only increased-
The things she could paint were better than any other famed artist.
Everyday she walked on the same crooked, cracked road
In  hopes of meeting someone friendly, to not be alone.
And everyday that dream did come in many shapes and forms,
but in every dream she took her brush and painted for herself a storm.
Her brush created terrible nightmares those which are meant to scare,
but she saw them and felt comfort, covering what was bare.
It wasn't till one day that she questioned her sacred art
when a faraway figure emerged and offered her his heart.
She cowered and questioned and felt fear anew
What was the practiced painter to do?
Well she looked at her brush, lifting it to her friend,
and wished she didn't have to do what she had done time and time again.
She turned her brush around and closed her small, small eyes,
and painted lines on herself, those meant to disguise.
She wrapped herself in her blanket, sewn from terrible storms
and watched from behind her brush, wondering why she made herself alone.

The small girl walked into the small room in her small school full of big words.
She sat at a little desk piled high with books
and flipped through the pages but only for a moment,
for moments passed and brought newer interests.
A woman with unkempt hair and quaint glasses sat behind her podium
preaching words which none seated were grateful to receive,
while one in her desk flipped through the pages.
Day by day the class came and went,
and the unkempt lady spoke the languages of people passed,
but none cared to understand the lyrics,
and one flipped through the pages.

And so the hours passed and the learners left their books
but one slipped it into her pouch
to explore later.
It brought her much joy,
this silent journey,
and she continued along the uncharted path.
She climbed the trees, dug in the ground and absorbed all she could.
It was not a race, though she ran through it,
skidding to a stop when the end crept upon her.
She met many friends along her first journey,
though she could not shake their hands,
but they smiled, and shared with her their thoughts
as she flipped through the pages.

These pages were not like all others though.
Their words were colors,
painted carefully with a brush yielding the power of speech and music.
They read like a song and told stories
or explained thoughts
or breathed admiration.
Each new hue left passion dripping down the page
and emotion danced between every line.
The small girl drank every last drop until her cup was empty
and she sought to refill it.
On a new journey she found wells and streams and rivers from which she drank.
Each passion-filled page quenched her thirst
and she met more friends and heard their voices.

She followed Keats down an old walkway
and barely kept up with Poe.
Robert Frost drew her a map
and Emerson gently led her through his land.
The girl followed them,
and decided to mix colors of her very own.
Her thoughts took hue as she expressed herself,
lining stones to create her own new pathways
and swimming in pools she filled herself,
silently hoping others would drink from them.
But despite her many travels and journeys,
she would always return to that small room
where she would listen to the unkempt woman
with lots to say and no one to listen,
and sit at her desk, weighted with big words
and flip through the pages.