Too shy to talk
But give her a pen
And she won’t be silenced,
Writing about dragons and fairies
And the distant worlds
From her delicate, butterfly dreams.
She wanted adventure,
Only feeling at home
When lost in a book.
She’d look under her bed
To find those monsters
In hopes of making friends
And ask them
What’s it like to be afraid?
So she could write
Like the grown-ups do.
Little girl, the demons
Aren’t under your bed
They’re under your skin,
And I’m afraid you would no longer
Recognise your own writing.