I stare down at it,
My neatly penciled page
And I wonder
Will life ever be the same?
I have poured all my being
Poured every drop of heart
Into this creation
Into this thing here now
With a skin like paper
Whith blood made of ink
I wonder if they realize
I wonder if they know
What exactly went into each line
What goes into every word
Do they know the pain?
Do they know the tears?
Do they know the toil?
Do they know the smiles?
Do they know the joy?
Like a child reaching out his hand
to touch a brand new toy
Or weeping in the corner
Over the latest thing they've said
Over the most recent scar
Do they knopw the poet,
the heart, the mind, the soul?
Or are the just the words
Their only real goal?
I stare down at my page
All pencil, ink and paper
and I wonder do even I ever
Stop, to think beyond the words?