Words are beautiful,
cruel, and fleeting.
They play in the writer's soul,
devouring the mind.
They tell the stories
that tie us together
and tear us apart.
They are friend
and foe
and frenemy.
They are gifts
given too quickly
or ripped from the heart.
They are
what we wish to be,
what we could never be,
and what we will become.
Bittersweet and passionate,
they exist as
our face to the world.
They are our masks
and the parts of ourselves
that we keep hidden.
They are little pieces
of our inner selves
that we give to the now.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Words are beautiful,
cruel, and fleeting.
They play in the writer's soul,
devouring the mind.
They tell the stories
that tie us together
and tear us apart.
They are friend
and foe
and frenemy.
They are gifts
given too quickly
or ripped from the heart.
They are
what we wish to be,
what we could never be,
and what we will become.
Bittersweet and passionate,
they exist as
our face to the world.
They are our masks
and the parts of ourselves
that we keep hidden.
They are little pieces
of our inner selves
that we give to the now.
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