I wonder if they mean anything,
All those words I whispered,
To blank walls and stale air.
And I wonder, If the words my pen bleeds out,
Ever really touch your soul.
If your admiring eyes and encouragements,
Are really for me, or gritted out, in name of polite decrees.
I know you'll never see,
What my words hold, the scars in my soul.
But still, I write, bleeding out,
Wishing you'd see,
What's hiding between them,
Crying out from behind them,
But knowing you won't.
Because these words can never tell you,
What I really want you to know.
