I try to put my heart into ink,
To spill its secrets upon the page,
But the words falter and fail,
Like broken wings refusing to fly.

Each stanza is a battlefield,
Where my heart wages a losing war,
Ink spills, but the essence eludes,
Leaving only fragments of longing.

I dip my pen in the well of emotions,
Hopeful that this time it will capture,
The raw ache and the burning passion,
Yet it falters, leaving me empty-handed.

The ink bleeds, a scarlet reminder,
Of the futile attempt to capture my heart,
But it remains elusive, untamed,
Defying the confines of the written word.

Oh, love, how I envy your prowess,
Your ability to spin pain into poetry,
But my heart, it resists translation,
A language only known to itself.

Each stanza, a sigh of defeat,
As my words crumble and disintegrate,
The ink-stained paper a graveyard,
For the dreams that couldn't be voiced.

I am left with a parched pen,
And a heart that yearns to be heard,
But the ink runs dry, and silence prevails,
As my failure echoes through the empty page ...