Ink flows from your fingers
free as falling rain
scripted words
your hands were born to say.
Gilded words drip out your mouth
like morning dew from leaves -
silver stories
your tongue was made to tell.
Lines of prose haunt your eyes -
a whisper on the wind,
things you dare not speak -
too much a part of you to know.
Beautiful, endless, flawless language
in everything you are
seeps out of you
as music from a harp.
Unending anguish hides in your words -
invisible in plain sight.
There for everyone to see,
but no one to acknowledge.
Your soul goes into the words
and you are left alone.