As the nights got cold
And the stars burned bright,
It was only the fearless soul
Who stayed awake at night,
The one in pale glimmer,
In the little sleeping town,
The only aching heartbeat,
Without a single sound,
The ballpoint pen in her hand
With tear-stains that she hid,
All danced in quiet sadness
And the coal ink was to lead,
Her heart was just as muffled
As her dark, unruly thoughts,
And it was only the paper
That could carry all her fraught,
For if she only could declare,
Whatever she could write,
If only there was somebody,
To hold her through the night,
But that's the fate of a poet
With her words waned so alive,
In every verse there's a secret,
An emotion well deprived
And if by chance you ever
Read a poet's line or two,
Let her feel she's not alone,
That you can be her paper too.
YOU ARE READING
Paper & Ink |#Wattys2016|
Poetry"I am the black on white; the ink on paper." A collection of my nightly thoughts and daydreams. Highest rank: #5 in Poetry. Please enjoy reading and find a friend in one of my works. :)
