“Is this what they mean,” she stares at the blank page before her,
“When they say only tortured artists can create.”
And as he trailed his finger down the trace of her back
Out went the stream of conscious that was her creation
Dug out by the assembly of emotions, intangible currency ran
Swiftly before she had known to remember, unfair exchanges
For words she meant to deliver instead
Before she had met him, as if there were no words to prescribe her
Not when one is happy and content, so she believes
She has alas ran out of words this way