So many words remaining unsaid,
So many pages remaining unread,
I lay here on my bed, filled with my dread,
Thoughts run through my head, yet I’m mentally dead.
Consumed with fear I turn to run,
Tidal wave of emotion, I’m overcome,
I stun myself, hurt but numb,
Confused by what may happen to one.
To tell the truth would be a lie,
To shut my eyes would be to spy,
To stay uninvolved would be to pry,
And with each heartbeat, my soul shall die.
I know that this is contradiction,
A writers mind is my infliction,
Hurt but hopeful, inventing non-fiction,
These words just fit my description.
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