Raindrops of Thinking

  — by Blue           The sound of the keyboard is music to my ears. The ink of the pen left on my notebooks are like paintings for me. But no matter how much I enjoy them, they are only half of what they were intended. What is the use of a message when it is nothing but unsent mail? Scrapped letters are meant for the bin.           Yet I could never throw them away. Even if they could never reach the height of their destiny, I could never resent them. They hold a part of me that I have carefully crafted out of the half truths of my soul.  ***          If someone where to write a letter for every word that I have chosen not to speak of, I would have a mountain of letters with not enough postmen to deliver them. If someone were to honestly filter out the truth from the lies, the reality from deception, I wouldn't have been left with just a smiling face and empty eyes. I would instead be granted the never ending paper that bore the messages that I would have wanted to send.