Unread Lines Of My Existence Poem by Sierra Staten

The ink inside this pen can hold so many words, it's strange,
I describe so many things, or can sadly rearrange,
And love or tears of sorrow, which will leave this paper stained,
But in the end if no one reads, is love what I have gained?

For all that I have inside, flows out of me, in ink,
All the things I've wished for you and I, or what I think,
Happiness, or lonesome skies, ecstasy or pain,
Lies within the winter snow I write, or summer rain.

They say that if a tree falls, and no one's there to hear
Does it really make a sound, this thought fills me with fear,
For if so true, then words that come from me, with pen in hand,
Will disappear not to be seen, like a child's castle in the sand.

I've written many thousands, my words, I set free here,
I've emptied many pens, to love's sweet feelings, and to fear,
But my real fear is that my words, maybe just will lie,
Until the pages filled with hope to you, will someday die...

Words that come from deep inside, in hope of reaching you,
But if my thoughts are never read, they're meaning gone, but true,
So why, do I keep these poems coming from my mind,
Because if I should stop, the words would all be lost in time...

Time that would see my words just lie upon these pages,
No one here to see, or read them, fading with the ages,
Someday gone, with wind and rain the edges torn, and tattered,
Like autumn leaves, time will find the thoughts broken and all scattered...

But write I will, and for no reason, but to help myself,
Even if the words not read, grow dusty on my shelf,
Someday perhaps, someone will browse, far, in years to be,
The old and yellowed papers, long ago written by me...

To wonder maybe who had thoughts of love and loss combined,
Who the old and weathered books came from, and from what kind of mind,
Some hopeless, helpless lost old soul, A woman or a man?
That sat for days and months on end, paper, pen in hand...

So now here lies another unread piece of my existence,
Something compels me to write, I offer no resistance,
I suppose it comforts me in ways, just to see these words,
Perhaps as does the sun and sky, comforts the singing birds.