I am a lonesome soul

As many a man has said

I do not have command

Any place but in my head

But power is in the pen

Written, I have bled

For though my voice is empty

My thoughts are never dead

And though I yearn in writing

My pages are but few

My thoughts grow cold and fade away

And must be formed a new

Each time I speak my mind

I can only partly say

What I have pondered to myself 

Long throughout the day

And when I speak to others

My thoughts which I have pride

Unless they be in writing 

My claim to thought seems lied

I am certainly anxious

My social mind is weak

It's conversation with myself

My infant thoughts but seek

To ponder deep the memories

Which no longer can I convey

Those mailable ideas

My mind keeps soft the clay

Alone my path's ideal

Abroad I see no plan

And though my passion screams for comfort

I am nowhere, man