I wrote and wrote prolifically —
But what’s a girl to do
While sitting in her room all day
When visitors are few.
Because I felt compelled to write
But not compelled to share —
I thought they’d take me literally —
So no one was aware
That I knew birds had feathers —
That hope was not a bird —
That horses couldn’t lap the miles —
And wild nights were absurd
I metaphored myself to sleep —
Ate phrases with my teas —
Personified my biscuits
And tasted similes.
Experience wouldn’t stop for me —
I had to just assume —
Imagine what I could have done
If I ever left my room.
