लेखिका

They damned her when she tried to speak
Jeered her when she lay in the ground
They condemned her into the deepest of shells
Yet she always smiled, never frowned

Like a sponge her heart soaked the tears
Insults like alcohol coursed her veins
No one knew of her black conscience
No one could fathom her pains

But in the end when, she'd return
She'd use her sword destroying pen
Unleash a beast on sheets of paper
Verbal destruction to destroy those men

Those men lay crumpled under paper feet
Ink flowed like poison to kill them all
The sponge was squeezed as black acid poured
In the form of words all over her walls

She wrote of her past, she wrote of her days
She wrote of friends she could call her own
She wrote of love, war, life and death
She wrote of a world where she was all alone

She was the character, she was the plot
She was the dialogue that ran right through
She was the end of your non-fiction novel
She was the chapter that ended it for you.

Dedicated to the writer who is her book!!! Dedicated to the book who is its writer. Dedicated to my friend... who is an open book!!!
Keep writing!!!