She was staring at a blank piece of paper,
she was writing while chasing the wind in a cold stormy night.
She was holding the pen.
She was formulating words on her mind in a cold stormy night
she was having a hard time dealing on what to write.
She was holding the pen.
She was struggling at the middle of her paper
she was trying so hard to hit the trigger in a cold stormy night.
She was holding the pen.
She bumped the limit of her imagination
she was conquered by the words of the enemies
in a cold stormy night.
She lost the pen.
She started staring at a crumpled piece of paper
she was hopelessly chasing the wind in a cold stormy night,
she was dying to have the pen back.
She opened the crumpled piece of paper
she'd found out the stranger who had get into her open door.
She found the pen.
She gazed out the window of loneliness in a cold stormy night
she was writing to death on the old piece of paper.
She'd let go of the pen.
She lost the only thing that was so dear to her
she was a writer in a cold stormy night
but she's like a soldier who's been fighting so hard to win his life but lose it
and who has finally let go of his life but gained it.
As she lost her pen in a cold stormy night,
One had found it and held it once again
and from that very moment was the best stories of her life.
God holds the pen.
She was staring at a paper of nowhere
in a cold stormy night, where her battle begin. 🤍
*Wrote this last 2014*
