I pick up my pen, I want to write something

Something wonderfully beautiful

and brilliant.



I wish I were

the possessor of magical words

that would make you love me again.

Only when I pick up my pen,

I find I have nothing intelligent to say.

I'm an idiot

a fool

uneducated and ignorant

of the ways of love.

Why should I sing of a love that was

ugly and hurtful.

I wish I could write something to make it

wonderful and joyful. Only I can't.

I wish I were

A poet - Poe or Yeats perhaps

I wish the ink that flows out

from my pen would become

butterflies

Daisies and stars

So when you say them aloud

they'd flow off your tongue

like the music from Orpheus' lyre.

I wish you'd hear the music

that speaks of hope in my heart

through my pen. But I pick it up ...

And begin to write ...

Only to find ...

I've nothing to say

That you don't already know

Things words don't explain away.

I wish I were the rain

dropping

on

your

windowpane.

Lulling you to sleep - You'd forgive and forget

Me.

Dream Sweet Dreams of us again!

While I press my nose against the glass

and cry a Rainstorm

Unable to get back to you.

Knowing when the sun does shine

I'll be sent away.

I

Wish I could tell you these feelings

I feel

But feelings were meant to be felt, I suppose.

It's over, let you go, but no, I can't even

do that Right.

It's over now,

and I've nothing

to say.