She holds in her hand a device so superior
no other has had this power so strong
and the cacophony of voices that invade her mind
force her to use this power to unwind
As she holds it in her hand and let's the words flow
black ink leaks out to fill in the blankness, the emptiness
of a paper and a soul, that with this power she can make whole.
Even while letting out, she's actually taking in
all of the words, that often stay trapped within
the blotches on the white, are sometimes just black
other times, its a fallen drop from a eye
they seep through the white and ruin her tale
yet they tell enough of a story, of a woman meek and frail
she scratches the blotches out,
not wanting to show the world this pain
the story she wants the world to know
is not about her losses, but the lessons she's gained
the ink dances under her power, following her every command
a woman who's been scorned, is allowed to voice a reprimand
that powerful, thin little feather, that still holds enough ink at it's tip
is kept aside while she reads her tale, nervously biting her lip
she smiles a smile that no one will understand
and then she folds up the parchment in her hand.
She holds in her hand a device so superior
no other has had this power so strong
Addictive is this power to write away her anguish
to write against the men who'd done her wrong.
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