Silent little talks with myself.
Confiding within, for help.
One too many; my stories fly page after page.
Ink blocks and heart’s locked, so many cry like me.
So many words have been casted on paper, most of them shared with the world.
Why does no one listen…
Feels like I’m sharing my heart with you; my tears and my fears, through my words.
Does anyone feel me….or is it just wasted ink?
Pages and pages, down the bin
How many hearts have you won?
Does the world ever listen.
Has the poet risen.
The ink has dried away.
Why can’t this poet walk away…
Purple Empaths 