Whisper of the Unheard Voice

Whisper of The Unheard Voice Writing words of his heart where they have been hidden, The beating of my heart is at a race. This quiet of a man, Has his mind been subdued? My canvas is off-white; This writer would write. Silently, in pursuit of the muse for his words. My mind is a sure place for me to browse, But, my writing of this gray is not allowed. A strive for words to come out to be. Making noises inside my head, Searching memory for the right words to be read. I'm sure what I find, is true, What needs to be said? Turning my canvas, of closure, be a light blue. An author stumbling to find, Unwritten words are his muse at his mind. Still, his heart he holds, he refrains. Turning again, that color of the writing its canvas of blue. Speaking of the underwritten words about to be written, Stories are still a blank inside of me. I write if it was going to be of a "Crown of Solid Gold," Be a foretold of a story old gleaming, In the light of its hail. Of these words, Let them come Where the end has already begun. Literary of his choice of the words, Just waiting to come out to be read. This piece will be his way of breaking an authors' sway, Unethically speaking, of course. It's in my journal that I should be writing, instead decided to take the words to Grammarly's site fighting. At least to stay ahead of this poem's play, right, is the sprite, let's say? Why not throw a tickle, or two, or three? We were talking of sprite, hm, let us see, right now, I am thirsty? Can I drink that sprite you wrote into play, haha? Being of the words a sprite is a soda drink I speak, or, here is the entity? An entity, my this is getting too deep? Well, I guess that is me, in a peep? My body, at fundamental needs to be in respite. Before finishing the whispers of the unheard and unspoken heart, his heart has spoken. I'll end in a whisper, good night to all, a good night.