She is painting word pictures in the notebook of her mind
When you think she has left the world far behind
The story was born as she travelled by car
The pages unfold as she drifts near and far
Day to day demands drain her soul life
A job she trained long for, being a wife
Neither were quite as she dreamed they would be
The paths that she found did not set her free
She is painting word pictures in the notebook of her mind
When you think she has left the world far behind
The story must pause as the road starts to bend
As she doubts her strength to get to the end
But her soul cannot rest, she will never be still
Until is written what is in her will
Raindrops of hope that the story she tells
Will pour and nourish at least her soul self
She is painting word pictures in the notebook of her mind
When you think she\'s left the world far behind
The story was born in a world filled with pain
She hopes in its writing some peace she can gain.
So dear sir or madame, would you read her book
It took her years to write, it could be worth a look?
Maybe it will end the absence of meaning
To know that perhaps you could indulge in her dreaming