Swimming and splashing in the mildest of seas,
Sniffing salted air and laughing with the breeze,
She followed her heart and all its simple pleasures;
Forever her own scribe to her teeny adventures.
She spoke her truths unabashed,
Uncaring of how others might react.
Then crayon morphed to pencil and pen
And she became picky of thoughts she let in.
"No one would read that, it's practically drivel!"
Her demons grew as her confidence shriveled.
The floor became littered with crumpled up art
Until the day she couldn't remember how to start.
"Talentless," she hissed, "Gutless, too.
How did I think I could ever be true?"
Ash without fire, soot without spark,
She sits beside a ship she'll never embark.
Her mind chained to the gritty shore:
"I am to write, thus I am no more."