Saturday, July 16, 2005



Who knows of my life?
Who cares of my life?
Who will ever hear my heart?
Who will ever want to hear my words?
Do I write in vain?
With so many voices,
What do I have to contribute
That is anything
More than what anyone else has?
Why would my words be any more
Why would anyone spend the time to read them.
Words are so many
Acts so few.
Am I left only to babble on
Without purpose?
Does writing it all only add to the pain of hunger?
Or does it feed a desire foolishly?
I have so little time already.
Is this how I then spend it?
It seems as if it is.


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