I am to you just a voice,
or even less, just a bunch of words
appearing to you in silence.
How can I call you,
with my silent, voiceless,
merely written words?
Letters you can just ignore
and never read...
I am the poem
you never heard in your inner thoughts,
and thus never could write...
So I wrote myself for you.
Will you ever notice me,
will you ever read me?
You seem busy
writing and reading
other poems,
leaving the poem
that is ceaselessly writing herself for you
aside...