These words, an Unrequited Love

These blank pages are the sheets
I wrap around myself

I rest my tired bones here
I pour my soul here

I only know how to weep with a pencil
I rage with it. Die and breathe with it
.
I love with it and oh how I love immensely
Deeply and all consuming

Unless you write, you can not know
I walk between worlds

Reality and fantasy
And belong to neither

Its only to them I belong
Completely and utterly

Possessed to the very limits of my being
And yet my soul welcomes the intrusion

Poetry slays me, uses and abuses me
Story telling gives me strength

I belong to the words
Even as they so rarely

If ever belong to me.

Capricious, and often cruel
Masters and Mistresses

They leave me
Escape me

Taunting me

And I'm the forlorn child
Sobbing at being abandoned

How can you punish me so
When all I do is love you?

When I'm adrift between slumbering
and consciousness, words paint my dreams

Magic follows me
Ever present, Ever there

I'm never alone.

I know not a companion more constant
Or a lover more tender

I walk with words

I go to bed with their whispers
On the back of my neck

The truth is I would rather be besieged, bedeviled
Than ever remain for a moment bereft of all these words

So what if sometimes I love the words more than they do?
It's the greatest unrequited complicated love of all?