I am not precious about possessions,
but words, words I am precious about.
I'd sacrifice any longing of mine for a lifetime
if it'd earn me an hour with pen and paper.
I find failure in painting pictures,
debating and persuading,
but give me pen and paper and I will fill it,
with words, words of many forms and elegance,
intelligence and eloquence.
Words are my weapon,
in the places I've found myself with no defence.
I lose myself on the journey,
that just a few words can take me;
the daydream, the intrigue.
One word alone can change my mood,
A picture paints a thousand words, they say,
yet just one word can paint a picture.
Music expresses what words cannot, they say,
yet without words there'd be no song.
Acts speak louder than words, they say,
yet words give us the motivation for action.
The simplicity of prose brings solace,
but the intricacy brings insight.
And where is solace without insight,
where is insight without solace?
Where are we without words,
without insight or solace?
When I speak, I throw away words,
I waste them, confuse them, hurth with them.
Yet when I write I cannot only capture words,
I can use them to capture my thoughts,
to capture you.
If my thoughts are the playing field,
my writing is the court;
the chaos of my inner scribe finds peace
among pen and paper.
I love metaphors;
all the thing a word can stand for.
And then there's the words we defy to supply.
The magic lies in the unwritten coming alive.
It's my dream to share all the words
I've ever written,
and all the stories therewithin
and without that can be found.
But you and I already rely
on all the words we need.
Because we have heard the three little words,
from the one Word we need.