Whispers of Silence

Pen-culiar

Eyes blank upon a paper.
Thoughts seemed to be going
   nowhere.
I scribbled writings on a page,
Yet all those are foolish for we don't
   speak the same language.

I waited 'til my body was fed to
   scavengers.
I spoke 'til my voice was hoarse.
Crafted pieces 'til blood stained my
   creations.
Yet all of these are futile, if we
   aren't tuning in to the same
   station.

A strange quill will never belong to
   a group of varied exquisite pen.
   Hence, its markings will always
   be just another incomprehensible
   poetry.