There is a girl,

Quiet and rare,

Who refuses to speak,

Or show herself bare.

She isn't quite skinny,

Nor overly large,

Yet each day that passes,

Makes life rather hard.

Romance is lacking,

But if you look there,

Her heart is on her sleeve,

And with it she cares.

She's not often noticed,

But she doesn't really mind.

Not even when others

Take up her time.

She sits in the back,

Quite around strangers.

She prefers to read books--

No one will be near her.

The books are her shelter,

Her pen is her weapon.

Her notebook is filled

With all she has written.

Unwritten plots

Scatter the page,

But it is writer's block

That fills her with rage.

She knows it is there,

And if she could just try,

A beautiful story

Is bound to arise.

People put her down,

Say she's dreaming.

Writing for a job?

What is she thinking?

The money isn't well,

And all will be spent.

Why, with such little income,

How could she pay rent?

Still she persisits

And never gives up.

Because on some days,

She gets a stroke of luck.

There is a girl,

Who trusts her gut.

She clings to her notebook,

And a rare stroke of luck.