A poem you will not read,
Is like a word you will never see,
A dream you will never heed,
Or a smile that you decide to sheathe.

It's the coldest day in winter,
And the hottest day in summer,
The death of a loved one,
Or the birth of someone you never knew.

Like a bird without feather,
It's something I just can't seem to weather,
It always finds new ways,
To make the writer feel blue.

Late at night I feel it's pain,
Th pain of a poem not read,
Like a bird caged,
Or a man unfed.

It cries out in pitiful agony,
Its moans sweet symphonies,
Of pain etched in words unknown,
And of beings far from this world alone.

There is such a cry,
In all of us,
And it's up to we,
To end its plead.