In the realm of words, I wander free,
A poet's heart, for all to see.
But my own verses, they remain,
Unsung, unloved, a silent pain.

I weave the tales, I spin the rhyme,
For lovers lost in passing time.
Of love's sweet song, I paint the scene,
Yet my own love, it's never seen.

My words, they dance, like fireflies,
Upon the page, they softly rise.
But my own heart, it beats unseen,
A secret love, a hidden dream.

Oh, to be the poem, sweet and true,
To feel the touch of love anew.
To be the words, the rhyme, the song,
And dwell within your heart so long.

But still I write, with hope and grace,
Because perhaps, one day, I'll find my place.
And in your eyes, my love will bloom,
From poet's heart, to love's own room.

© matthewwwebster