False Prophets

My words are false.
My poems are counterfeit. They are shadows, holding form, holding a shape, but lacking color and details of what I want to say or write.
My words lay in crime scenes, hiding behind caution tape, only leaving outlines devoid of life.
My words are held prisoner within the confines of my pages, for they long to be set free, free from this captivity. They are born within these walls, these horizontal bars stretching across indented cells, between these covers.
These words, my words, long to be more. They long to be heard, to be read, to speak to others, to speak to you. These words, my words, long to be your words, yelling at the top of their lungs out from the silence of this solitary confinement.
My words tire of holding their tongue, speaking only half truths, unable to say what they truly mean. Because they save themselves for you, wanting only you to speak them to, trusting that one day, you’ll come and set them free.
I hold onto these words wishing for the day I no loner have to.