Thousands and thousands of meaningless words,
Line upon line of unloving verse,
Verse by verse in unfeeling pages,
Pages bound within cold leather cages.

Not free to move and wrap around,
Hug you tightly without a sound,
Feel you; touch you just as they should,
Hold you tight, just as I would.

But line by line I spread my pain,
Flowing through me like blood in my veins,
Page by page I release my love,
And send it up to the stars above.

Scrawling, ink-stained, broken hand,
Scrawling broken-hearted plans,
Words of love in every book,
Written in the hope that one day you’d look,
And see just what you could have with me,
I can love you far better and longer than she.

Alas you are blind and cannot view,
The words that explain what I feel for you,
So away upon the shelf I am placed,
Left alone, there to waste.

A book of loss, a book of pain,
A book of things never to be gained,
A book for those whose faith departed,
A book, a book alone for the broken-hearted.