Alone.

 

From what feels like a hundred years from this day,

A young girl sat at her desk,

And in the black before morn,

She wrote without rest.

An idea had come to mind,

About a girl dressed in grey,

Who threw knives at a boy,

That she had never asked to stay.

The girl became more real to her,

From pen to paper to a girl inside her room,

Sitting by her side on the bed,

Asking for a more described costume.

That little girl shivered in the cold,

But she still kept writing,

For a while all fear disappeared,

Left for the pen and mind moving.

It wasn’t the first time she had written,

But it was certainly one of the best,

Being able to write,

To forget about tomorrows test.

And as the characters few grew to crowd,

She became aware,

Of a girl who hadn’t been written,

Who’d given into despair.

And the stories continued,

The characters growing stronger,

‘Till they dominated her mind,

And said “We’ll stay for a little longer.”

But she didn’t mind,

For now she wasn’t on her own,

For the tiniest little while,

She wasn’t all alone.