My words feed from the flesh
that gives them strength, my pain

I let the writer in me die,
suffocated by my joy

In a world of sunshine
still the darkness creeps in

It is so frigid in the shade

When all have turned away
from the lifeless poet,
her fingers twitch at last

Reborn to pour her soul
onto paper with words
whether blissful or wretched

She awakens.