Envy Envy falls upon my fingertips, With poisoned pens she writes, But the words flow not through mine. The lines do not course through the veins, And squeeze on the heart. They are merely words, words, words. Falling from mind, to heart, to pen, With never a drop of depth, Although the hole they come from, Is like the bottomless pit. I envy the obedience, That the words seem to have to her, As if they were hers, To caress and command. Why do my flowers, Not have sweet scent? Why do my daggers, Not have sharpened tips?
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