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SHE'S A WRITER

She hardly knew her father
Although he holds her in her dreams
She really still her mother's daughter
She's just the queen of make-believe

She's fiercely of her own mind
All alone in her own right
She doesn't depend on men for anything
But she'll stay with me all night.

She's a writer, she's a painter
And language is her brush
Her words strike me like arrows
But she's sensitive to my touch.

She lets me get much too close to her
She takes me in sometimes
I think she trusts me enough to show me
All the anger locked inside.

She's a writer, she's a painter
And language is her brush
Her words strike me like arrows
But she's sensitive to my touch.

She a lover like Frida Kahlo might have been
A friend like Gertrude Stein
She's still searching like Katherine Mansfield
For others of her kind
She's a writer . . .

Too many years spent slouching
Inside the shadows of some man
Too many years spent crouching
When she's aching just to stand.

She's a writer, she's a painter
And language is her brush
Her words strike me like arrows
And she's sensitive to my touch.

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