In the buzzing of chatter in the room
A single soul attempts to escape their gloom
Others laugh, talk, and worry
But she is in no hurry
Instead of discussing events and gossip
She engulfs her mind and sound into a trip
The pen in hand and paper before her
She finally stands as the creator
Tired of the corrupted environment
She slowly retreats, distant
People wonder only for a moment
But turn away as she is resistant
Brushing off their shallow concerns
From that so called humanity she turns
Into her world of thought and lines
Into the world for which she pines
All secrets and inner thoughts revealed
When once they laid locked up and sealed
Her once numbed heart silenced and still
Picks up pace to match the words’ trill
Her race against herself, humanity, and time
Appears before her in prose and rhyme
Bound together for all to see
Are the books that whisper to me
