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.