Her ponytail
Once strong and tall
Was already drooping
And starting to fall.

Her tired rear end
Had stopped aching.
Now it was numb
The hours kept taking.

But still, she wrote.

Her busy mind
Was full of thoughts.
Her fingers flew
To weave the plot.

Her characters
Were growing tired.
They thought they'd lost
But she was inspired.

And still, she wrote.

Her alarm clock
Rang the time.
The time to get up
And join the grind.

Her growing smile
Bloomed on her face.
For she had finished
It felt like first place.

Because she wrote.