And after too many written letters on crumpled pages,
She began to see herself.
Somebody out there will see her the way he never did,
She began to forget.
Her words will never again, will not always be his,
She began to realize.
Out of the woods she is, In the clear she is,
She began to find herself.
And for the last time she wrote, for the last time she did,
She began to accept it all.
Her words, her heart; slowly, they're falling back,
She began to write, not for him, but for more important things--
She began to write for herself.
YOU ARE READING
Written Constellations
PoetryA constellation of prose, poetry, and verses spun together for a galaxy of love, life, heartache, and hope.
