She writes as if though writing was her oxygen.
It is as if she would drop the pen, she’d stop breathing.
Her adjectives made sense entirely.
It was as if she had to draw them, they would come alive.
Her wrist turned and twirled as she made contact with the page.
If she had to dance on it the words would be lyrical.
The focus in her eyes were so clear.
It was as if she had to peep through them, we would still see her soul.
She let out all she had felt to the world on a piece of paper.
It was as if we could feel every emotion within her.
She was so beautiful, that she was her own butterfly.
...and there for a moment in time I could be the poem of my own poetry.