Ink layered upon white sheets

The colors meld, it all turns grey

My pulse is dropping, i feel weak

Do my efforts have any hearsay?

The weight of my words are too heavy

For on this night they seem so plain

I have no audience to entertain

So why must this writing be so messy?

I see authors in the limelight

With cheering crowds and clapping hands

And i keep writing in spite

Of the emptiness infront of the speaker's stand

Every road i turn i meet disapproval

I fake my words, they become pretentious

I do this all for removal

From the criticism relentless

But- no- no more of that

I will take of this painted mask

I will show my true self and my true words

Even if they remain unheard