She stood unsteady,
as if unsure about how to begin.
She quickly assured us she had nothing fancy.

No PowerPoint.
No video.
No notes.

It was better that way,
all she really needed were her poems.

Oh how the words flowed.
Each stanza was a layer,
revealing a new insight,
and way of thought.

She had a way with words,
that I could only envy.
Yet somehow this creature of beautiful talent,
failed to realize the worth of her work.

Her eyes nervously skidded towards me,
as I greeted them with a reassuring smile.
"Just breathe"
I tried to say with my mind.

Her back straightened,
and her shoulders were no longer hunched.
Her words crescendo-ed,
and her tempo steadied.

The lines of thought,
the lines of song,
of joy,
of sorrow,
and of beauty,
approached my ears.

Some were familiar,
for I had reviewed them before.
Others were foreign,
as if just being discovered.

Her thesis soon became clear;
an artist needs her work,
because her work is who she is,
anything else is what she does.

Poetry was her addiction,
giving off a high greater than any drug could lift,
yet one that's good for the soul.

She promptly came up to her oldest friend.
Arm in arm we walked,
finding new words to become us.