Words are in there,
I feel them,
though they stay hidden.
I try to coax them
by stroking the lines with my pen.
They scatter in meaningless dribble,
afraid of what I may make them say.
Words are tired of being sad.
They long to be happy,
to tell stories of love and romance.
I don’t know how to arrange them,
so they run.
My pen is dry,
my paper empty,
even my Words have left me.
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