She was born with a poem on her lips, voice raw and lungs stretching, forming her first screams as she claimed the stage with her existence.
I am born.
A year later, her throat gurgled, struggling to form words to convey what child eyes could see in the purest form.
As she grew, she heard and listened, waiting with a patience a child her age should not have, and watched.
She'd grab the attention of anyone near to tell them her words that poured honey between her fingers, that pooled at their feet, crystallizing into diamonds that sparkles and reflected her soul that sings.
Extra
She'd gather her thought, pollinated/cultivated from experiences
From fields of flowers and clovers
Meadows
Couldn't say she met no heart-ships
Each tasting
As she transformed
Those she touched
She felt behind
A connected heart and a
Transformed mind
With a beautiful mind
That was a hive of activity
That despite all diversity
Was untainted
And remained
Her mind a hive of activity
She was born with a poem on her lips, and sings it to this day.