The Writer

A girl made of paper
Did sit in her chair
And allow her paper to spread.
It went to her fingers.
It went to her hair.
It completely enveloped her head.

It went to her legs
Which once were so white
From lack of exposure to sun.
It went to her heart
Which at once became light
But the transformation wasn't yet done.

Because there was color
That needed to come.
Shading and words to shape her.
To form who she was
In a general sum
A desire which couldn't escape her.

The shading came on,
Dark lines for her hair
And circles for her rose cheeks.
It made her lips plump
And she wanted to share
How the being inside of her speaks.

It wasn't quite done,
This big, quiet change.
The paper girl still needed eyes.
So the lines did form,
Though the feeling was strange,
The lines seemed so young and so wise.

It was then she knew
These lines were all words
The makeup of each body part.
And she looked around
And her eyes sang like birds,
For they were named Passion and Art.