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