The Words Pile up, a Lonely Cairn
The woes of a lonely indie writer, about to give up.

The words pile up, a lonely cairn
On pages blank, a barren plain.
She writes and writes, with passion deep,
But no eyes see, no hearts will keep.
Her stories yearn, her poems sing,
Of love and loss, of everything.
But silence greets each heartfelt line,
A symphony unheard, a hidden shrine.
The ink bleeds dry, the paper frayed,
Her soul exposed, her spirit flayed.
The doubt creeps in, a chilling blight,
“Is this all worth the lonely fight?”
Yet still she writes, with stubborn grace,
A fire burning in its secret place.
For even unread, the words hold power,
A testament to every passing hour.
Though no one sees, she’ll still create,
A world of words, her own estate.
For in the writing, she is free,
A writer writing, eternally.

The ache begins, a subtle sting,
A whisper in the heart’s soft wing.
A memory floats, a face, a place,
A longing for a warm embrace.

The laughter shared, the stories told,
Around the hearth, in days of old.
Familiar scents, a loving touch,
Missed so dearly, oh, so much.

The miles stretch out, a ribbon long,
Separating where I belong.
A yearning grows, a heavy weight,
To be with them, before too late.

But time moves on, the world keeps turning,
And hope remains, a candle burning.
For in my heart, they’re always near,
Their love a balm, dispelling fear.

And though I miss them, every one,
I know we’re still connected, bound as one.
Until we meet, I’ll hold them tight,
Within my soul, their guiding light.