The Author's No One Reads

The quill stains my palm And the page is just an oubliette An inked escape, paper thin Where I can just forget There’s something to be said For those who write today Can it be considered literature? What does it truly have to say? The textbooks whisper to me; “Words without thoughts never to heaven go.” I am compelled to believe It cannot be but so The words are obsolete In a language lost to time Homer, Shakespeare, Austen, Keats The words I love aren’t mine But I trace the curve of letters Wishing the fantasy was real Mulling over volumes of fairy-tales Since nothing else can make me feel Inspired