The ink inside this pen can hold so many words, it's strange
I can describe so many things, or can sadly rearrange
With love or tears of sorrow, which will leave this paper stained
But in the end if no one reads, is love what I have gained?
For all I have inside my mind, flows out of me in ink
All the things I've wished for you and I, or what I think
Happiness or lonesome skies, ecstasy or pain
Lies within the winter snow I write, or summer rain
They say that if a tree falls, and no one's there to hear
Does it really make a sound, this thought fills me with fear
For if so true, then words that come from me, with pen in hand
Will disappear to be unseen, like castles in the sand
I've written many thousands, my words I set free here
I've emptied many pens to love's sweet feelings, and to fear
But my real fear is that my words, maybe just will lie
Until the pages filled with hope to you, will someday die
Words that come from deep inside, in hope of reaching you
But if my thoughts are never read, they're meaning gone but true
So why do I keep these poems coming from my mind?
Because if I should stop, the words would all be lost in time
Time that would see my words just lie upon these pages
No one here to see, or read them, fading with the ages
Someday gone with wind and rain the edges torn and tattered
Like autumn leaves, time will find the thoughts broken and scattered
But write I will, and for no reason but to help myself
Even if the words not read, grow dusty on my shelf
Someday perhaps, someone will browse far, in years to be
The old and yellowed papers, long ago written by me
To wonder maybe who had thoughts of love and loss combined
Who the old and weathered books came from, and from what mind
Some hopeless, helpless lost old soul, A woman or a man?
That sat for days and months on end, paper pen in hand
So now here lies another unread piece of my existence
Something compels me to write, I offer no resistance
I suppose it comforts me in ways, just to see these words
Perhaps just as the sun and sky,
comforts the singing birds
Dean Evans
9-24-07
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
The ink inside this pen can hold so many words, it's strange
I can describe so many things, or can sadly rearrange
With love or tears of sorrow, which will leave this paper stained
But in the end if no one reads, is love what I have gained?
For all I have inside my mind, flows out of me in ink
All the things I've wished for you and I, or what I think
Happiness or lonesome skies, ecstasy or pain
Lies within the winter snow I write, or summer rain
They say that if a tree falls, and no one's there to hear
Does it really make a sound, this thought fills me with fear
For if so true, then words that come from me, with pen in hand
Will disappear to be unseen, like castles in the sand
I've written many thousands, my words I set free here
I've emptied many pens to love's sweet feelings, and to fear
But my real fear is that my words, maybe just will lie
Until the pages filled with hope to you, will someday die
Words that come from deep inside, in hope of reaching you
But if my thoughts are never read, they're meaning gone but true
So why do I keep these poems coming from my mind?
Because if I should stop, the words would all be lost in time
Time that would see my words just lie upon these pages
No one here to see, or read them, fading with the ages
Someday gone with wind and rain the edges torn and tattered
Like autumn leaves, time will find the thoughts broken and scattered
But write I will, and for no reason but to help myself
Even if the words not read, grow dusty on my shelf
Someday perhaps, someone will browse far, in years to be
The old and yellowed papers, long ago written by me
To wonder maybe who had thoughts of love and loss combined
Who the old and weathered books came from, and from what mind
Some hopeless, helpless lost old soul, A woman or a man?
That sat for days and months on end, paper pen in hand
So now here lies another unread piece of my existence
Something compels me to write, I offer no resistance
I suppose it comforts me in ways, just to see these words
Perhaps just as the sun and sky,
comforts the singing birds
Dean Evans
9-24-07
