She's almost like a poem. She's the ink left scrawled on the paper, but not the words. The ink. The feelings that a writer gets when they put pen to paper. The words are simply what the writer can make work, and rhyme. But oh, the ink on the paper, that holds a thousand feelings, it held every beautiful thing the writer wanted to say but couldn't. It held every draft that had never seen the light, it was everything that the writer felt but didn't have the words to say. This is her. She doesn't conform to rhyming stanzas and simple flowing sentences, she is the ink left smudged and scrawled on paper, she was the feelings yet to be voiced because nobody knows how. This is her.