Invisibly she sits
In the cocoon of her own home
Every day, alone
Churning out her little poems.
As a child she played writer
Imagining awards and trophies,
Never thinking for a second she’d
Be isolated and alone.

She looks outside her window
At the suits rushing to work,
Children on the bus
Wearing the garb of their school.
They all look the same,
And at first glance one couldn’t
Distinguish them by name.
The men in grey suits drive past
In their shiny, new cars –
Symbols of success –
They have made it far –
While she huddles into the safety
Of her oversized dressing gown;
She huddles into it so fiercely that
Within it she may drown.
She lowers her head into the robe
Hoping that they can’t see
And then her keyboard rages against the silence
Of perfect domesticity.

She lays the words before her,
Hesitant but proud,
The freedom to say these dangerous things
That she’d never say out loud.
But now, she feels pathetic –
She feels tired, and weak.
These words floating before her
Are not only hers,
But also belong to
Those who cannot speak.
She saves them in a Word file
Never to be seen
Far too dangerous to be unleashed –
People are far too mean.

What she shares is softer
Without the anger and the spite –
People take personally everything she writes.
They tell her she’s a natural
And should write for the paper
Ignoring that she has no time
For this publishing caper.

Because unfortunately, when day is spent
And the kids are tucked up in bed
She doesn’t have the energy
To wrestle within her head.
Instead she packs the lunches,
And closes her eyes to sleep.
These kids won’t stay young forever
And so, for now, these words can keep.