Her Own Inspiration

She reached for a pen ready for poetry to come gushing through her every vein and very soul, before her eyes, onto paper …

Nothing.

The page was blank. Silent. Still, as the cold winter air outside.

She couldn’t write about “it” anymore ..

Not like she used to before ..

She feels for “it” no more ..

She no longer worries when her words are disbelieved; she believes Her.

She no longer wonders if her intentions were misunderstood; she understands Her.

She no longer complains nor overthinks. She had soaked enough papers with ink all about “it”.

And standing at this very realisation .. All of “that” was no longer the words to her poetry.

She released herself from the outside noise.

She seeks words from the depth of her blue oceans, then reflects her colours onto the skies.

She is the creator of her world.

As of today .. She is her own poetry.

She is her own inspiration.