Her name tells of the hours she steals from the ticking clock
The truth is she knew the secrets of midnight whispers and twilight hours
Everyone learned that she could truly be in two places at once
And she journeyed far and wide each day
With whirls of papers and words flying around her
Fueled by sweet caffeine
And chasing life like it was sprinting away
She knew how to spin yarns while marking pages
To avoid sleep like the empty hollow beast
Shaking early morning hours for the last drops of use like a nearly empty milk bottle
And she always stayed late to hunt ideas like bear
So they smiled at tired eyes but finished projects
And assured her that time would occasionally stop for hours of rest and laughter
My writing -- poetry, short stories, excerpts, vignettes -- is here because I'd like to share it with those who are interested. I always appreciate constructive criticism, but don't feel obligated to comment at all. If you don't like snarky reviews, blood, guts, description, sadness, intense imagery, journalism in a style fully inspired by The Good Doctor himself (Hunter S. Thompson), and frankness, you may want to pass this one by.
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