The Writer

She was a selenophile,

The moon was the muse,

Of all the work in a brain

Which was otherwise completely fused.

An insomniac, she could not sleep

But could somehow dream

In extremely vivid colours

Of scarlet, turquoise and cream.

Oh, she loves to write

But her mind was a mess

Her heart full of goals,

Her brain full of stress.

She loves the petrichor

After a good, heavy rain

For it brought back the memories

But also the pain.

Oh, how she loved to write

But her feelings could never

Be put on words for language

Was never that developed and clever.