She sits at her desk,
pen to paper,
pen to mouth,
Scratching and
Scribbling away.
Her typewriter
Urgently ticks
To the rhythm,
and the tune,
of a never ending thought.
She is God.
A Creator.
A Lover.
A Child.
She is what she says to be.
She is a story of love
A story of betrayal.
A mindless vanilla ice cream
for the masses
She is a Philosopher.
She wakes up each morning,
and puts on a new face.
There is no force on earth
that can stop her,
For her weapons are her words.
She is
My Friend, The writer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem