A lonely man sits
At a desk full of papers,
Thousands of words
Trapped between lines.
He wonders, “Why?
Why do I write?
When I die,
Will these words die with me?
Is there any point
In writing these lonely words?
Will they be remembered
When they turn to dust?
Do I write for you,
The reader?
Or am I simply
Writing these words for myself?
These piles of paper,
A collection of thoughts.
Who will understand?
Does it matter?
As long as I live,
I will spill these thoughts
With a dull pencil,
Until the time comes
When I will be
Just a memory.
But my thoughts
Will live on paper,
An echo of me.”
Trapped Between Lines
