What I mean
And what is interpreted
Are so often
Vastly different.
Meaningless-
Or seemingly so-
Words
Can become my jail cell-
Can condemn me
To worse fates
Than misunderstanding.
My thoughts-
I feel-
Are not so complex
As not to be understood.
But, yet,
What I mean
And what is interpreted
Are so often
Confused.
The scrawling of my pen on paper
Sets the steady cadence of my life.
Always writing-
For my spoken words are more unclear
Than those marked in ink.
And yet, 
Those ink-stained pages
Are more deadly to me
Than a million memories
Of spoken words.
The penned words are permanent.
They stay with me
Always singing out my thoughts
To those who should, perhaps,
Not hear...
The voices echoed by the pen-
Trapped between lined pages...
So forever,
What I mean, 
And what is interpreted
Will never be the same...