Scribbles written for an invisible audience,
on paper that captures inaudible words.
A writer conducts a word filled symphony,
that may never be read or even heard.
Though the writer goes on,
transparent to the world,
their only viewers, the paper that absorbs,
the words of their hearts and souls, and minds
just drifting deb-re that's left behind.
A poem of justice,
a story of lust,
a script so profound,
keep them unseen, you must!
For if they ever were to surface,
and the world ever knew,
that these writers existed,
a corrupted ego perhaps
may have grew?
Unseen they do prefer,
their words kept bitter secrets in their mind,
though to outsiders it may seem selfish,
but their better left behind.
For if they're ever put on petastool
and shown out to the world,
would these writers become corruption?
and break literature; a fragile pearl?
The outcome as unknown as they are,
lurking in the alleyways of words,
their hands scribbling letter for letter,
in unclear ink and pencil shavings,
their work as tiring as the popular,
and more so as degrading.
So these writers prefer to stay unseen,
underneath the sheath of metaphors,
the invisibility is comforting,
and more than enough to ask for.