Hark Autumn.

She who loved to write...she's gone and fallen in love with a mass of nerves.
She thinks so much before she writes,
that she never writes what she means to.
Words fail her because she has too many to choose from,
and everything lies on slime,
because she looks before she leaps.
Unfortunately now, she ends up lying on a pile of thoughts.

Thoughts produced by a mass of nerves,
the one they believed to reside a little close to the heart.

And close. So close, yet so far.

Sigh...rake them away.
They're useless.
They're hers.