the young poet

before going down to the Nuyorican,
she spent her time that afternoon
writing down her innermost thoughts
on small pieces of paper.

after composing her masterpieces,
she slid them inside key books that she
loved throughout the NYC public
library.

silently, before the slam,
out into the world of those that she thinks
she might have been able to relate to
(had she every really met them),
she speaks volumes without the disease of
ulterior motive eating away at her
wondrous heart &
she leaves the library letting the wind blow through her hair,
breathing in the city she loves so much,
never to be heard from again.