The Written Girl – A Poem

I stare atwords-made-pretty-girl-custom-fashion-stylish

a blank page

and wait for

it to speak

to me. It

remains quiet for

a moment, waiting

for me to

put my fingers

on the keys.

When I do,

the white cloud

in front of

me begins to

ripple. I watch

as words form

on the page

and those words

begin to make

a shape, that

of a young

girl. She gazes

out at me,

her skin made

from words that

I have yet

to write. Her

eyes look at

me pleadingly and

she opens her

mouth. I do

not expect to

hear her voice.

“Why haven’t you written my story yet?”

She says. Her

voice is a

soft lilt, like

music or the

song of birds

in flight.

“I don’t know who you are.”

I tell her.

None of my

current works in

progress feature a

young girl. I

have a few

on the go

and there isn’t

a girl in

any of them.

“That’s because you haven’t written my story yet. You have to give me a voice if I’m to live.”

I shake my

head, trying to

find the words.

“You aren’t real. You’ll just be something I made up.”

She laughs and

I hear the

sound of bells

ringing. She looks

at me sternly.

“Doesn’t every writer put some of themselves into the characters they create? Don’t they say that to know a writer, you have to read what they’ve written?”

I’m nodding at

my computer screen.

I don’t expect

her to react,

thinking that this

is all in

my head. She

puts her hands

on her hips

and tosses her

hair. I look

closely and read

the words that

make up her

hair. I see

the words Queen,

magic, betrayed, lightning,

Lavender Man, familiar,

the last Witch.

I wonder if

her hair reflects

her story. Her

dark eyes look

into mine, beseechingly.

“Can you please tell my story? I’ve been waiting ever so long.”

I nod and

then say one word:

“Soon.”

She sighs with

contentment and I

watch as the

words and letters

that make up

her body begin

to drift across

the page, unwriting

her. She looked

at me again.

“Don’t forget. Don’t forget me, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I tell her.

She gives me

one final smile

and then the

final letters that

make up her

mouth and eyes

slip away across

the page until

it is blank

once more.

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About Jamieson Wolf

Jamieson an award winning, Number One Best Selling Author. He writes in many different genre's. Learn more at www.jamiesonwolf.com
This entry was posted in Info, Letting the Water Flow, Poems, Talking Poems and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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