i see the struggle and pain
scripted across his beautiful face
i wish that i
could be his pink pearl
and over time slowly erase
such agonizing pictures
his words paint for me every day
and like a canvas drenched in colors
my ears soak up
the things he seems to say
as the tip of his pen
tortures his notepad
and like forgotten ripped out pages
i feel the hatred
boiling and mad
for the world i feel so depressingly sad
and my tears persistently run down
like a stream
forever flowing across the ground
they will never notice his depth and insight
but persisting on
he continues to write
not for his moment in the lime light
but because
this flame inside of him continues to ignite
and that passion and fire
burns
so blindingly bright
versus so descriptive and vivid
it is hard for others to see
burning their retinas
to a third degree
and his work is looked upon
as morbid rubbish and debris
but still he writes alone unnoticeably