Words I Pen
I write the words, yet they are read wrong. I cannot say them any plainer. I know not the simple way of speaking. I have tried to be direct yet it is taken wrong. Do I write such drivel as to be thought mad? Or is the pen I use more poisonous than I would ever conceive?
I speak from the heart yet I appear to be throwing knives. From the depths of my soul do I feel the heat yet it comes out as ice. Fear not for I am but the holder of the feelings. I share them willingly but they are thrown back at me in anger.
Lest I be thought the spirit of evil, nay, lest my heart be stilled, I cannot belay the heart and soul of the love that dwells within. It is the fire of a thousand suns but is taken as the ice shelf of the universe. Can not I say what I mean and have it taken as I mean it?
For what lies in the heart of one man is not felt in the heart of the woman. The feelings cannot overtake the logic of the mind. I dwell alone in this sea of pain and sorrow. Hear me not for my words are but ink upon paper. What they have in meaning is but for my heart to explore.