The kind of poet, the soul, the girl.
She worked backwards.
Her teachers always told her,
"Never start with the title, write what you feel."
She never listened,
Of course she wouldn't;
What did they know
About creativity?
About the process?
Nothing, At all.
The evenings she worked on her titles,
at night built up her scars,
But she'd never suceed,
Not really, not yet.
The critics didn't agree
'Til she was gone, of course.
"What a soul."
"What a fresh new voice."
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