The Speaking of Souls
.
Maybe that's why our pens fall silent,
Why our paintbrushes lie still:
Not that we've emptied out our souls
But that we fear we never will.
Or perhaps it's something worse
The thought of bleeding out our hearts,
So others might find solace
In the truth behind our art,
But when we hand it our creations
Our hollow chests empty and weak,
The world says "Sorry,
but your soul talks it a language we don't speak."
-