My hands are itching,
The pen is inking,
The papers are calling,
The words are running,
The thoughts are indispensable.

Yet my hands are tied
My palms are bleeding
And my eyes are teary
As I so much long for my lover.

He sits in my thoughts,
waiting to be laid in papers,
longing to feel the ink from the pen.

His cries make my face wet,
And his heart bleeds from loneliness...
"Let me out"
He says,
"That I may be heard".
© Joyce Godswill