There she sat. Like every other day.
Talented, oh yes. And with a view, that too.
And with some history, unlike many others.
Fuel enough, one would say.
There she sat. Yet another day.
With her overflowing head: very busy at nothing.
And so she was tired, as nothing kept her very busy.
Fuel enough?
There she sat. Dreaming through the day.
Blending her assets into a magnificent novel?
Or blending them into true helpfulness?
Fuel enough, after all!
There she sat. And passed the day.
Dreading her own indifference,
of life going by, without her even trying.
Fuelling nothing but a grotesque frame.
(pathetic attempt at self-chastisement; as if it would change any thing)
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