Writing was her antidote.

She writes,

And spills her paper,

With overflowing thoughts,

And unspoken words.

Her body,

Partly attached to her scriptures.

Her pain and joy,

Forever inscribed inside her poetry.

Her mouth,

Never spoke as much as her poetry did.

Her hands,

Never did as much as her poetry does.

And this,

Is the cure of writing,

That lets her get through the day,

And fall asleep another night.