Misplaced.

There are nights like this my pen falls silent,

And my paintbrushes lie still,

Not that I’ve emptied out my soul,

But that I fear I never will,

And tonight I feel much worse,

Because I keep bleeding out my heart,

Praying someone might find solace,

In the truth behind my art,

But when I show off my creations,

My heart sometimes feels weak,

As if the world looks at me and says,

Your soul speaks a language we don’t speak.