The world is a suitable, beautiful, muse to her

She wakes up with smeared make up

And types whatever’s true to her

Whether its painful and the rain falls

Whether its sun rays and her love plays

She writes for a better tomorrow

Today the page is the only quarrel

What could have or should have been

As it is written; life is brand new again

Let the writing be a healing from this desolate plane

Growing up and showing us that it’s alive again