I have a friend who's perfect.

i have a friend who says she can't write poetry
who says everything she pens is not worth keeping...

she's the most beautiful thing i've ever seen,
her eyes are a mix of snow globes and black holes,
not even giving light a second chance to look away.
her hands 
are so soft they grip the pen like a feather
and as she quills her name at the top of the page
ink spills from her veins as she writes every letter.
and i sit there,
just watching.
i shiver every time i see her pen quiver;
and i know music is being born. 

ten thousand angels sing her prose
and the mute all whisper her poems.
she writes the wind, the moon light,
the sun as it sets as you look to the west,
and the light as it rises again.
all this creation on the end of her pen...

she throws away papers unrefined;
pages strewn 'round the room.
on them what she thinks are just throw-away lines,
words falling to their dusty tomb.
i pick each one up one at a time
pulling them from the cracks in the floor
and each one ends up a favorite of mine
stuffed away in a dusty drawer.

i have a friend who said she cant write... 
one day i'll tell her, 
it shouldn't surprise her
that as soon as she picks up her pen
her words already have a home.
that as soon as she writes her name
it's already a perfect poem.

Reviews

[Jean Alexandria Randall]

This is a truly amazing poem. So many times people do not see their true talents. This was a great way to speak the truth about the way you feel. It flows well and very complimentary to someone whose talent you cherish.