The writer's song

She sees a whole new world
From somewhere inside of her
Reality spells boredom
But from the ordinary, inspiration she will spur.

She walks in the city,
with the traffic upbeat
But her mind's in the mountains
And her heart's with the beach.

She types away to glory
On machines named fruits
But there's ink on her mind
The sacred pencil, so divine.

Machines and wires
How unimaginative could those be
So she lives in her dreams
And dreams of what could be.

She talks with passion
About both politics and love
Secretly she slaughters
Your reactions to each of those above.

She'll tell you she's sorry
When she won't really be
But she lives on your reactions
So she can write about them in glee

She weighs her every word
With caution she speaks,
But you'll think she's so simple
Manipulated, you shall certainly be

She will kiss you with maddening intensity
Enamored, you feel?
Well, she was just knitting poetry
She didn't mean to sweep you off your feet!

She'll smile when you hurt her
Or indifference it could seem
Act upon all those contemporaries
You'd think she believes

But at night, when no one's looking,
she'll weep to her pillow
And her heart will ache,
A frightening deal.

She's a writer to herself
And her temporary muse you can be
Don't judge by the surface though,
There's volumes that you don't see

She's a poet in her head,
You don't know all that she can be
She'll trick you into anything,
Elusive? Ah well, she's a writer, you see.

~