A word is simply letters
And letters simply lines
To help convey the many thoughts,
Which tangle in our minds.
And yet somehow we struggle,
To find what's right to say.
With all the words we've seen or heard,
Our thoughts still slip away.
We use our words as paintings.
We use our words as masks,
To hide from those who see too much.
We hide from what they ask.
When thoughts don't flow with words,
They tumble from our eyes.
We wipe them in frustration,
For revealing our disguise.
To some our words are power.
To others, they are shame.
To me they are a paintbrush,
No painting is the same.
To you they may be weapons,
Or as gentle as the dawn,
But no matter what you think of them,
The words will carry on.