I've written these words on paper,
Words some will never see.
I scratched these letters to give them
The space that they really need.
And when they lie unveiled
To wandering, searching eyes,
They pass by seeing no tale
In these words' silent, abandoned cries.
The words are left without meaning,
Without a soul who even cares.
Open to you, but forsaken,
You breathe them in and out like air.
They mean nothing to you,
Just a poem, just a thought
To go back and try to look deeper,
Is nothing you've ever really sought.
And yet those others who write similar words
Get praise, acclaim and support,
While poets like me are left to wonder,
If the words are even worth much at all.
The words seek for meaning,
Something to live for just like you and me.
And when you pass them by unmoved,
You will never see or feel anything.
Words, words, words,
That's all they are to you.
They're just as dead as their author,
Who's tried so hard just to lose.