Her words began as cautious raindrops dancing on the edges of certainty. They ran quickly across the surface of meaning, never quite coalescing. Her words were small and finite and simple, but her pen wouldn’t cease, the ink turning to blood as it moved across her pages.
And suddenly, the world began to listen. Her lines found legs and they stood on their own. With each phrase and stanza, her meaning found footing and her words held the attention of audiences she had never hoped to find. They devoured the lines of pain she sliced from her soul and folded her poems into their hearts.
And as she wrote, she thought that perhaps these little poems were much bigger than she’d realized.
I’ve often called my poems little and readers/friends have often told me they aren’t so little, so this piece was thus inspired. 🙂