Heart of Paper

She is a thousand untouched pages,
She is a billion unread words,
She has art in her troubled soul,
And her tunes are often unheard …
Her book is one that needs love,
A kind of love that hurts;
For she bleeds upon each leaf,
Till she is reduced to a desert.
Then she scribbles what she feels
Miles on that land of waste,
And most walk by, heads held high;
Some say it’s in bad taste.
She waits for one to decipher,
The meaning of her be-ing
To gaze at more than the cover,
To read her where no-one’s seeing …
And when no one looks within her,
It crumples her heart of paper,
How sad is that she doesn’t realise,
It takes time to scale a skyscraper.


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