the young poet

before going down to the Nuyorican,

she spent her time that afternoon

writing down her innermost thoughts

on small pieces of paper.

 

after composing her masterpieces,

she slid them inside key books that she

loved throughout the NYC public

library.

 

silently, before the slam,

out into the world of those that she thinks

she might have been able to relate to

(had she every really met them),

she speaks volumes without the disease of

ulterior motive eating away at her

wondrous heart &

she leaves the library letting the wind blow through her hair,

breathing in the city she loves so much,

never to be heard from again.