I have wrote till the pencil
  is nothing more than splinters
              needed to be pulled from my mind.

But still I reflect my emotions
                        on blank spaces.
Nothing is visual, but is spoken
                                 on the paper.

I cant reflect on my words
                 even though
                      everyone is filled with tears.
Never wiping them away,
but filling each one
      with syllables descending tearfully.

I have never let another read a word
             that's blotched on satin white,
contaminating its moment with the
         silent verses that'll never be read.

My words are silent, I'm the lonely poet,
             who's verses are not even read
                                             by yours truly.
         there just moments blind on paper.