The Art of Writing

You know its rather amazing to me after all of this time
I've never composed a poem that I thought could ever rhyme
I've never wrote anything that satisfied the writer in need
The maniacal heart that has released these words from me

I thought that it was my charm, the way I worded everything wrong
Perhaps it had brought me a story that went on for far too long
The unrequited author in this novel that remains never ending
The search for the keys to a heart that knows of no beginning

I continued slaving away with this pen in my right hand
The journey to draw a picture in words she would understand
I started with my anger and pointing my finger right away
Unanointed to the reality that I didn't know what to say

Soon it all started to come together and I had a masterpiece
I hurried to post it on Myspace in hope of my sweet release
I would tell her all of the things I wanted and how I cared
But I found myself in a situation where nothing was even there

She read over my piece for the reasons I'll never know why
Then told me poetry was dumb and mine was just another lie
I made my way back to the table and found myself out of words
For how could I capture imaginations if I couldn't capture hers

Years have went on and I still stumble drunken to my chair
With the words I possess but words I might as well not share
I think to myself often about the days when she were mine
And I wish to paint a masterpiece, with words I'll never find