The Poet

And thinking that words could create love,
oh, how I write and wring and search,
only to build the perfect image.

They are all paper hearts,
I dress them in gilt edges
and ache for someone to hold them all
and tell me, “Yes, I see you, I hear you.”

They become my Cyrano,
and all the things I feel I can never show,
because I’ve grown walls I never noticed before,
with cracks enough to slip the pages through.

But will they be enough when my old-age nights
come along,
and some people still may know me,
but will anyone finally love me?