Untitled (Writing)

The pen meets the page,
And starts to flow.
The pen forms a letter,
Then a word, then a sentence.
Soon enough, the entire page is full,
And the words continue onto another.

The words it forms
Carry meaning to only one person,
While all others merely see them as words.
The words that are written
Are chosen for a very meaningful reason,
And, yet, no one sees that
Except the author.

As the pen continues,
It follows a pre-determined track,
That no one can see.
The author merely places the pen down,
And it carries itself,
Forming the characters on the page.

As you read the page,
And see the characters form in your mind’s eye,
They recede into the darkness just as fast,
Never to be seen again.
The significance of the choice of word
Is lost, and no one notices.
To them, it is merely another piece of literature,
Ready to be dissected and analyzed.

The words begin to fade,
And the page becomes blank,
Yet again to receive
The words of another disturbed mind.
The author mourns silently,
While the world continues
On it’s own, pre-determined track.

The words disappear altogether,
And the world of the author follows suit,
Leaving the writer in disarray.
They become forgotten,
And live out the rest of their lives
In total isolation,
Mentally, if not physically.

Never take a piece of writing for granted.
Think of all the hard work put into it
By the author; all the time,
All the effort, all the sacrifices made.
Give each piece of writing its own due,
And read it over before shunning it;
You may be happily surprised.