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Description
Every time I write a poem,
I write it with high hopes.
That a lost soul might read it,
And somehow learn to cope.
When my pen touches the paper,
And the words flow out,
I wonder, who will read this?
And my mind fills with doubt,
My words once changed lives,
But now, what can they do?
Dull and lackluster,
That's what other's think, do you?
I never see a comment,
Saying, 'this touched me so!',
But I've held true to my heart,
And I can't let go.
For one day my words will help,
And heal the world we've hurt,
Keep my head up high,
Not staring at the dirt.
For what good comes from looking back,
Or from looking down,
When there's a shimmer of hope,
When you look all around.
So maybe you needed to hear this poem,
Or maybe you did not,
But I won't stop writing until you find,
The words your soul has sought.

Description
Every time I write a poem,
I write it with high hopes.
That a lost soul might read it,
And somehow learn to cope.
When my pen touches the paper,
And the words flow out,
I wonder, who will read this?
And my mind fills with doubt,
My words once changed lives,
But now, what can they do?
Dull and lackluster,
That's what other's think, do you?
I never see a comment,
Saying, 'this touched me so!',
But I've held true to my heart,
And I can't let go.
For one day my words will help,
And heal the world we've hurt,
Keep my head up high,
Not staring at the dirt.
For what good comes from looking back,
Or from looking down,
When there's a shimmer of hope,
When you look all around.
So maybe you needed to hear this poem,
Or maybe you did not,
But I won't stop writing until you find,
The words your soul has sought.