The Writer

You wore a hat and two China braids
combed your looks from poverty
it is obvious you are no cardboard girl
something about you sings confidence
and is perhaps misunderstood by the paper leaf world
that wraps your evenings
with dreams of being a writer
of knowing love

You seem beyond your fifteen years
quite older than the strawberry jam girl you are
but underneath your myth of make believe stars
you are like every one else
trying to figure their place
to dam a need
along this stretch of creation
where days are no longer trusted
and nights don't care much for anyone