This pen could write as others write,
all full of woe and self defeat.
Or send this ink,  like tears of shame,
to tell a lie,  and forge deceit.

To moan of loss,  and whine of life,
and sit there seeking eyes
to hold this heart,  and hear these words
and see through a dark disguise.

To never perceive in reality
what lingers beyond the dark screen.
Oh,  but to shelter a pain, we hold in vain,
is nothing less than obscene.

So tell us a tale of why you are loud
and why you don't accept the fact,
that nobody cares bout how you once lost,
or that day when your words were attacked.

To write of this woe and signal denial
of the social encumbrance all round,
is to harbour injustice for false offences,
and to always lie broken on the ground.

Could we lift up our hearts and sing of the past
when love was not just a myth?
Or would you rather die to get attention,
a plain,  barren,  wordless wordsmith?

So, with love,  I tell you,  all wannabes and such,
to quiet your voices and listen.
For when your mouth shuts against life's complaints,
then that is when your life glistens.