You read my poetry,
then turned away,  
as if the words
had nothing to say.  
Each line was a pulse,
it was a part of me,  
yet you drift on past,
too blind to see  
that my verses ache,
hoping to be heard,  
yet silence lingers,
louder than each word.  
The ink may fade,
but my feelings remain,  
as I laid my heart bare,
was it all in vain?

Lizzie Bevis