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Description
I have a feeling
I can't quite describe,
But I attempt to
In all that I write.

There is a problem,
My work is the same,
A tale told until
It becomes my name.

I repeat my words
And hope they sound new,
They are all I am,
A child next to you.

My words are dusty,
They cannot be changed,
These letters come from
One truly deranged.

I write them in blood,
Carve them in paper
With my rusted blade,
Save them for later.

The lines repeated
Over and over,
Like a lullaby
Sung by another.

I am nothing more
Than a broken heart,
Silently screaming,
I am torn apart.

All that I can do
Is look to the past
That I keep hidden,
The same as the last.

These words that I write
Again and again,
Almost lost for ink
From this shadowed pen.