Teeth nibbling

at fingernails and pen caps,

a nervous--or bored?--habit

built from need for

something

to be happening,

mismatched socks,

room

a colorful disarray

plastered with art

and clips of life

as it passes by

in sluggish pieces

she clings to.

She seems to have nested...

(or is she trapped?)

Unsurprisingly,

there is color.

In her hair,

eyes,

makeup,

clothes,

words she churns out

in hectic jerky spurts

of rhyme

or reason

or maybe teenage angst

--one of her favorite words.

To the eyes

seeing the poet in her,

she is disturbed.

To those glimpsing friend,

dedicated

and loyal

as lioness.

To potential mate,

she is flighty

vulnerable

broken

and in no desire

for the help

that is so readily there.

To see the fear in her

is to see the dark underbelly

of the

happy-go-lucky

songbird

flitting idly

from sunshine to dark

with big dreams

bigger problems and doubts

...

or is it the other way around?

She huddles

over

precious nouns

and

precious mana

of too much caffeine

and secretive notebooks

and the blessed keyboard

but,

inexplicably,

despite poetry produced best in the dark,

she is happy.