Dripping Pen

In one corner of an archipelago,
Dreamt a girl just a few years ago,
Grabbing a bunch of scrap paper sheets in hand,
And a piece of ballpoint with writing in mind.

Wishing to be the next Jane Austen,
Or Dean Koontz—for short, a great legend,
In the field of artistry where anyone can be,
Anyone they want and who else they want to be.

Clip, clap! Yes, it is what we call "writing,"
For everyone with a great, great loving,
As deep as the Marianas or the Pacific,
A passion of putting mere words into ballistic.

After thousands of milliseconds had passed,
Going back to the girl—she hadn't write a clasp.
Everything she sees was white and black and blank,
She was clueless what she's about to embark.

Yes, the girl wished to enter the world of writing,
To be a writer from the very beginning.
But clearly, nothing for her is working,
And all just happened is ink slowly dripping.

None of a million ideas had arrive,
And the girl became someone not so alive.
Her dream was slowly slipping away,
Just like her ballpoint's ink dripping its way.

All she thought that it was simple writing,
But she never imagined that she's just scribbling.
Nonsense and no one could appreciate,
By there, she felt nothing anything great.

She tried fixing up the work of her dripping pen,
She tried working out her slipping dream again.
Until one day, someone recognized her,
Her work of art, by someone that dazed her.

Somebody noticed her "Once upon a time,"
Somebody noticed her loving for the rhyme,
Someone noticed that she's capable of being a writer,
And the most important thing is that someone noticed her.

Right now, the girl's dream was finally refueled,
Ready to fly again like a bird disentangled.
All the dripped ink of her ballpoint became worthy,
For at last, her dripping dream found its bounty.