Melancholy

Blotted ink is scattered across the crumpled scrap of notebook paper, spilling blackened feelings and hidden dreams in a futile effort only good in fairy tales and romances, where flowers and chocolates give way to perfect speeches in perfect rain with a perfect soundtrack.  But I don't have a soundtrack and without that the rest is all in vain, having no more worth than the words of good intention from the talking dummies in the store window, programmed to say all the wrong things for all the right reasons but never able to break through into the bitter reality that only the living know.