If I wrote a poem of infinite sadness
The pages would be empty...

You only see,
What I allow...

Listening to the wind blow,
From places deep inside...

You said forever
Yet here I stand alone...

Take a look around
Those memories are dusty...

Who really needs a book,
To tell them how to live...

Where could it have gone?
It's something everyday...

There is a girl on the corner who begs for some...
I dig in my pocket and begin the exchange...

I don't want or need your words,
Bury them inside...

Pages floating,
Through the air...

From far away this little rock,
Must seem like such a sight...

A still mind
Disturbed...