11 March, 2011

Orphaned Ink.

It doesn't matter how often I write words down,
Because they can mean and dream all they like,
But the truth is, they're lonely and alone,
They can long and lust and lie all they like,
Without a purpose, they drift meaningless,
Just waiting and hoping for someone to call on,
The words scream frustration from the page,
Aching for the moment when eyes bring them to life,
So then I can say that I wrote them for you,
And the words have someone to call their own.


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