I write for you.
My pen has become the portal of my soul and so I write for you.
Hoping that maybe you will feel something.
My heart becomes grey when you say nothing.
I write for you and therefore feel ignored when you ignore.
The deafening silence poisons my will and ability.
I write for you as this is the only thing I am sure that I can really do.
Maybe you don't understand that I am sitting within each syllable... waiting, swinging my legs as a child does, socks slouching, knee grazed and bleeding.
Every letter represents a drop of me and so when you say nothing I suffer a rejection of the hugest magnitude.
Blood sweat and tears cover each metaphor that you fail to embrace and words no longer satiate my need for you to care enough.
It has been almost a week since I wrote for you...
I asked "Do you?"... You turned away.