A writer
with pen in hand
an idea in her brain
trapped in dream that could mean she is not quite sane.
She questions the man who rides next to her on the train
Do you think I am a creep? Almost pretty but not quite there?
I was left for dead because I was not fuckable
by Prince Charming with Mommy issues.
Go ahead look away
I don’t care.
I have no face, no place to go, nowhere to be, I’m really not here she says
into his pale and frightened face.
No one will believe I was real.
They never have.
The writer with Pen in hand
an empty notebook waiting to be fed
could go anywhere unnoticed
and dress like a whore, a soccer mom, a serial killer with pink and yellow hair..
She could be sitting next to you, standing behind you right now.
The writer’s life is a dream
A nightmare that she could wake up from
if she was really asleep
and wanted to.
