These are just words ...

This, I keep telling myself. None
mean anything to anyone, but
the writer. Yet, as I write, the
words that spew forth from these
fingers to be displayed upon
the page ...

... full of emotion.
... a need to be heard.
... I yearn to be free, let me fly.

Confusion settles in, the more that
I read. Torn, little pieces to be
scattered upon the winds. Is there
not one soul in this world who can
love me, love my plight?

Nothing but words, these are, these
writes that purge my soul's fears and
leave me to cry tears of shame, hate
and pain. I long for something, for
someone, who seems to be real.
Yet, touch them I cannot, so it seems.
Isn't there anyone out there who can stop me ...

... falling downward.
... feeling rampant emotions.
... from dying within.

What more can I do but weep and
listen to the voices that dwell within
my mind.

I can hope!

Yet, even that, in the end, seems to fail.
I want to live, in happiness. Oh! To be
held within arms that see past my plight,
my idiosyncrasies ... perhaps even share
in such things.

Just words, just words, just words!
I must stop reading, for I've become
lost within thy words.