Her pen Her Voice

She couldn't speak,

but she could hear.

She heard every sound,

every noise,

every creature that there ever was.

But most importantly,

she heard words.

She hears the words that were said.

Each day she kept them.

Hidden from others.

When she was 5 she went to school,

just as every normal kid would do.

The other kids asked her if she could talk,

but unfortunately she could not.

But the kids didn't care,

and besides, she could hear.

She could still see,

and so she played.

Hopscotch and tag.

But then she got older.

The kids who she played with,

didn't want to play with her anymore.

She couldn't talk,

but she could sign.

She learns sign language when she was young,

but the other kids didn't think it was fun.

So they didn't understand,

not a word she did.

So she learned to write.

She wrote what she wanted.

She wrote what she needed.

Her handwriting beautiful,

elegant, and small.

She also used big words,

words the other kids didn't understand.

They seemed so simple to her,

but they didn't want to learn.

They already did that at school enough anyway.

She spent her time in the bookstore after school.

Her father was deployed,

Her mother worked at the bookstore,

so she kept an eye on her daughter that way.

She did her school, and then volunteered.

She stacked shelves and filed papers.

She had questions asked to her,

but she could never answer.

One day a little boy came in,

he could not hear,

for he was deaf.

But he wanted a book from which to learn,

and there was only one way for him to communicate.

He signed,

"I need a book for my school.

Could you please help me?"

The boy's mother tried to translate,

but the girl was already right to it.

"No need to explain, I know sign too.

Now let's find just the book for you."

The boy smiled,

and she kept those words,

never spoken,

in her heart.

She fell on hard times.

The bookstore closed,

her best friend moved,

the only one to learn sign.

It was all she could do to keep up with school.

She was pushed in the halls,

cornered in the grounds.

They demand that she talk,

that she was faking since she could see and hear.

She often sat with her mother,

rocking herself,

knees up to her chest.

She had heard screams before,

but she had never made a peep.

But sometimes,

she wished she could scream.

She decided to write a letter to her friend,

but she ended up writing a poem.

She crumpled it up in the trash,

she started again.

But she realized she felt better.

The poem helped her calm down.

So she wrote another,

and another,

and another.

The words kept in her,

all those years.

They were finally written,

as she shook with tears.

Every word that she heard,

ever sound that she knew,

everything that she's seen.

She poured it onto those pages.

Paper was her words,

The pen her voice.

She showed her mom,

her mom showed her teacher.

So touched were they by her words,

that it was shared with the school.

Some students listened,

but most did not.

It didn't matter to the girl.

She knew her talent,

she knew her way.

And now some kids would let her play.

Then she became an author,

she brought in money,

and she let her heart go.

The girl could not speak,

but she could hear.

And every single word was held dear.

For the paper her words,

her pen her voice.