My heart is an inkwell,
overflowing with feelings I've known.
Occasionally revealed by my pen.

Both a gift and a curse,
this fuel for my words.
Spilling everything both real and pretend.

Does any of it matter,
or am I wasting my time?
Pouring it all out for deaf ears, and stone hearts.

Will it ever be enough,
these memories, shadows and echos from my mind?
Or will it continue to matter to no one but me.