Everything I am in black and white,
yet none of it means a thing.
Every word I have had to say, or write,
has left no resonant ring.
An open book, with bloodied pages,
there for the world to read.
Yet here in the cell of my devising,
I do time for the thoughts I freed.
You tell me you don't know me,
that I am too complex to comprehend.
Have you really been trying?
Have you tried to skip to the end?
What is it that hasn't been said here?
How many volumes must I write?
How much more can I bleed to the page,
before dying in the dark of night?
What more do I have to say to you?
Why have I been speaking at all?
What use is pen or inkling,
When on deaf hearts they fall?
What purpose, this philosophy?
What point this endless quest?
What point the beat of an unheard heart,
pounding ever in my breast?
I am at a loss for words now.
I lose my mind and my sight.
For all fades to a thousand shades of gray,
That I thought was black and white.

It's sad at times our words seem to fall on deaf ears.