The Unwritten

“I write to fill the empty space, To share the thoughts that I embrace, The feelings hidden deep inside, The quiet yearnings I can’t hide. But in the words, I’m just the hand, The voice, the one who makes the stand, The poet who must always speak, While in my heart, I’m feeling weak. I wish for once to simply be The muse that sparks the poetry, To be the light, not just the spark, To leave my mark, to leave my heart. I long to be the song unsung, The echo of the words not flung, The subject, not the one who writes, To feel the warmth of someone’s light. Why must I give, but never take? Why must I write for others’ sake? Where is the voice that calls my name, To tell my story, share my flame? I am the source, but lost in time, My heart, a rhythm without rhyme. I wish to be the one who’s seen, Not just the shadow in between. So here I stand, with ink in hand, Hoping someone understands, That even poets need to feel The warmth of love, the touch that’s real. Just once, I ask, to be the muse, To feel the love, the light, the hues. To be the subject, pure and true, And let my story come to view.”