All those beautiful words
and nothing to show for it.
No one heard.
No one looked your way,
even once or thought to say something.
You have so many,
and if they do catch a phrase they call it beautiful.
And you take it as an insult because it wasn't supposed to be beautiful.
It was supposed to be the truth,
hard and unyielding.
They weren't supposed to find a way around it by expressing how nice they think it sounded.
They make you doubt you're worth,
because if they mistake your words for beauty instead of truth what kind of writer are you?
Those words were your blood, your life,
and if they knew anything
they'd know that beauty is not what it looked like.
While you were bleeding those words
beauty was not a concern of yours.
The sounds that follow blood are not beautiful,
they are seeking survival,
they are crying for help.
Their arrival gave you hope at first
because at last someone was here.
But they were ghosts veiled in skins,
seeking the beauty of life amid a mortal in sin.
SK
