Born to Write, But Never Written

Maybe some people are born to write,  
to bleed ink on paper under the moon’s quiet light.  
But never to be the verse, never to be seen,  
lost in the spaces between what could have been.  

For once, I want to be the poem, not the poet,  
to be the one cherished, though I may not know it.  
I tire of shaping words, molding my pain,  
while the world reads my soul but never knows my name.  

I want to be felt, in a line that’s pure,  
in someone else’s story, a love that endures.  
Not the pen that carves heartache into the sky,  
but the heartbeat someone writes for when they cry.  

Let me be the stanza that lingers on your lips,  
the whispered confession on love’s fingertips.  
For once, let me be the art, the beauty they see,  
not just the creator, but the masterpiece free.  

Because writing is lonely, and I yearn to be heard,  
to be the subject of someone else’s word.  
For once, let me be the verse that’s tenderly spoken,  
not the poet forever bent, forever broken.