DEPRIVE

I sit and look at a blank block
space, thinking of words
throwing my hands up giving up
my world for a single piece of
poetry, and artwork on a website
which fails to acknowledge the
more talented, the more unspoken,
the ones with hands tied together
fixed up face and plastic smile whom
write to save their own demons,
save their own art. Handing
written works to publishers of
those who can't compose good work
those who value glory more than
pain.
I sit patiently, my eyes
burn with laughter and anger
disbelief written in ink across
my narrow lips. Could I be one
of those? could I? the ones with
who crave attention for their work
no one seems to notice, the ones
with all the words to say and no
one sees them fall into the abyss-
the distant walls of depression.
one day my art
won't be considered art
my creativity will lay on a
soft blank sheet drifting in the wind
in the middle of Autumn
patient, crazy and on a fallen
winter a pretty bird will carry it
fly with it on a blissful cloudless
blue sky reading my words to the
clouds - to the angels lost from a
beautiful family - then my words will
come back to me just as the always
do

they haunt me.