If a poem
cannot be read
by for whom it's for,
then the heart asks,
what is it for.

I'm sick of these transfusions
I always have to give
You're always the one dying
And you need my blood to live

Universally you recieve
But very picky how you donate
As a universal giver
This I don't appreciate

Not everybody can love me
Not everyone has what it takes
Only my kind,
I find,
Can love me, and love me straight

No matter the circumstances,
My love never be returned
Because our transfusion doesn't work that way
You leave me dry,
To die
And burn

I like to write it's a great passed time of mine where I can scribble a thousand thoughts and then say right I'm fine, I've had a good whine I can get up and on with my day, cause a pen to paper is sometimes better than a buried box with closed thoughts that will never reach its recipient.

My feelings
Chronicled on the paper
Lay there for ages
Wanting to get rid of it
I crumpled it
And sacrificed it to the wind
One fine day
I get a reply
Based on my forgotten feelings
The wind delivered it
To the rightful recipient
Sure, words are resilient
They withstood challenges
To make my feelings known
Now, we exchange letters
Waiting to meet someday