It’s that I can spend hours writing
Its a cry,but The pen feel like my eyes,
And the ink my tears
UnTill everywhere I go,
I feel like I don’t belong.
And I have never belonged anywhere
Except in these pieces of paper
These pages know things about me
That no longer a living soul will
They have heard every word I have swallowed
Every mistake I have made
Each prayer I have prayed
Every feeling that I don’t have courage to name.
Is that who I’m ?
Is that where I’m supposed to be ?
Perhaps I was never good at being understood,
Only at putting the feeling into words.
And what happens when the words run out ?
When the ink dries,
And there is nothing left to write
Will there be anything left for me
Outside these pages?
It’s all I have ?
Is that all I can offer.