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.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
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.
