Weak Attempt (#1?) At A Poem

His shattered eyes fall loosly to the floor,
Searching for pain.
He is a writer,

Searching for his fixes with a pen.

He feeds off of sun drenched mornings,
The urge to burn away in the sun;
Meaning in every broken hearted sigh,
So he can keep the pain with every felt tipped stroke on the page.

Waiting at the train station everyday,
Watching for a hint of joy on one girl's face.
She walks with no fear,
Her face a blank slate to which he's anxious to write upon,

To stain with his thoughts.

To fill her with sadness,
And love, and hate.
To watch her break,
Her soft eyes fill with a spectrum of emotions

That she didn't know humans were capable of feeling.

That's all he longs for,
To catch emotion written on her face.
But this girl, she is a filler of space.

She goes solely to her destination to watch others wriggle and squirm.
The emotions that they wear so proudly plastered on their faces,
To her, they mean nothing to this world.

She closed off life,
Ran from it.
Never will she show an emotion
That could make her vulnerable to be torn apart from the inside.

She's numb to the world,
No fear, no angst.
She neither loves nor hates,
For she is of the living dead; emotionless.

She walks from the train,
Head held proud.
She feels pride radiate from her blue eyes,

and misery escape from the creases in her fingertips.

A man sits on a bench some few feet away from her,
His small pen working across the page he's secured in his lap.
This man; so small and fragile,
His pen beckons to her, and her composure shatters at her feet,

Like a train wreck.

Her urge to sit next to him,
To let him write on her heart,
Sweet words of all she's locked away
That would numb the pain of living, is too much.

He looks up at her,
A smile cascading over his dark features.
A smile so deep and radiant,
She glances away.