My Pen

Sometimes I feel like a shell
Of the person I use to be
The scattered outline, rough first draft of one who longs to constantly rewrite her ending.

Backspaces, lines, question marks and
So many double-spaced pages
The thin worn out cover of her soul
Is frayed and tattered along the edges.

Each memory becomes a chapter but
As soon as it is written, ink begins to fade
Crumpled pieces of paper with ghosts that echo
"Is there a forever and a day?"

Trapped, drowning in an inkwell I struggle
To make words flow freely from within
I wonder - will there be an audience to cherish my words
When I finally lay down my pen...