She used to be a poet
always with a notebook and pen
the words slipped away from her though
she wasn't sure how, or when!

She used to sit alone
enjoying the freedom in her mind
but the pen no longer writes
the notebook,  just a blanket of white.

She used to pour her heart out
blood oozing across even lines
Her soul laid out bare
no need to hide behind a disguise

She used to think it would last forever
day after day,  line after line.
Is it just a sweet fantasy
or have the words run out of time.