I scribe.
I strive to revive what dies inside,
transcendent from a form's perfection,
for the outside world in words, verbs;
action not meditation, there is a constant motion.
Expressive notion or just devotion to a sound, a noun
at a wavelength only I can hear, I fear
I am lost in the sound that is lost on you.
Always resounding. . .
Yes!
I am lost on the world;
not even a faint whisper to be missed.
You couldn't hear me go.
Save for the scratch of pen on paper!
Scratching... an attempted escape.
Save me!
Hear me!
I scribe! I scribe!
I scribe until what's inside bleeds out through cracks in the skin
created with a quill and quick cadence meant to be reciprocated
by voice, and met with resonant content on your ear, I fear
I am lost in the sound...
a sound that is lost on you.
I scribe! I scribe! I scribe,
but I just want you to hear my voice with your voice.
I just want to be heard.
