Paper

I can never say what I want to say exactly.

I can't find the words to even begin as I smile down at your loving text.

Where do I begin?

How does one explain the extent of their love if there is no extent?

My words are splattered like paint on the wall; no uniform to it.

It's a gross mess and the words become empty and hollow.

It's like peering at a skeleton that is so old and fragile, it could turn to dust with just one touch.

I come here though and my pencil makes love to paper that is so satisfying,

People believe I'm practically bleeding from my brain.

My words flow effortlessly like your favorite song through your mind.

Can I keep it old school and write you little love notes?

Words I say seem worth so much more then.

It's like handing you a bouquet of flowers every time.

Paper is everyone's best friend.

It listens without biased opinions or complaints.

It listens to thoughts people are too afraid to say.

Who is paper's best friend though?

Is it the authors or the poets?

The editors or the novelists?

Perhaps it is the loving reader that reads and listens patiently to their exotic secrets and wonders...