She wrote, not cry-

From words to phrases,
She tried her might;
To put those pure thoughts,
In lines and rhymes;
Alas, the ink well
Had dried that night;
The muse of poetry-
Departed her.

She sought refuge,
In the dark of night;
With the moon at bay,
And the stars not alight;
When the world consumed her,
She wrote not cry;
When the words ain’t coming,
She froze inside.

The moon didn’t shine that
Night when she sat;
And the sounds accompanying
Dusk didn’t arrive;
In the blanketed night,
Face thrust in hands,
For the first time in ages,
She didn’t write but cry.

She wrote how she felt,
But forgot how to feel;
In paragraphs and deadlines,
She ignored within;
The tears were a welcome,
Relief to her skin;
For in becoming in a writer,
She’d forgot her human being.