The lonely writer

Is there one to write for me

Or do I lay doomed upon this floor

Nothing to record my immortal soul

Not a word in description

Nor the colour of my eyes

Will none remember me

Is there not even one that cares

 

I have given you the written word

You and many others

A gift quite unlike any

And yet not even they have my name

Not even my words know me

 

What is to become of the lonely writer

Writing stories of love that won't come true

Forever wishing, head in the clouds

Writing her declarations of love

to you and you and you

 

Maybe one day I shall meet a writer

And he'll write a song for me

He'll list all of my features

And tell of his true love

Wouldn't that be wonderful

What an honour it would be

And proof in all it's measure

That there is a love for me

 

Reviews

[x]

This is a beautiful write, extremely well expressed.
Love is the greatest thing there is but all you can do is give it freely, without expecting anything in return and oddly enough, while in that state, one feels love anyway so...right there, it is returning. Trust me, through this process, I get heaps of love...hahaha.
Stunning write and thanks for making me think about it.