" Her poetry is written on the ghost of trees, whispered on the lips of lovers.

As a little girl, she would drift in and out of libraries filled with dead poets and their musky scent. She held them in her hands and breathed them in -- wanting so much to be part of their world...

It was on her sixteenth birthday that she first fell in love. With a boy who brought her red roses and white lies. When he broke her heart, she cried for days.

Then hopeful, she sat with a pen in her hand, poised over the blank white sheet, but it refused to draw blood...

She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands -- hands that will never know the weight of what they seek. "

― Lang Leav , Lullabies