Does She?

Let me bleed on this paper,
With dark blue ink. 
Let it flow evenly, or chaotically; the words a never-ending beat to a song not yet heard.
Let the paragraphs make you feel everything, or nothing at all.
Let her escape into the letters and syllables; becoming as simple and reliable as the lines on a sheet of looseleaf.
Let her be like her favorite writers, taking people's breath away with words strung together so perfectly. Unfolding a new world.
She wants so badly to create something worth fighting for. She wants to write.
But her notebook remains unremarkable, the pen remains still above a blank slate.
As if she has nothing important to say.
Does she?