Words

There's a point in writing where we question what we write.

Just like in life when we question who we are.

Actually. That's a lie.

There isn't one point. There are many.

Too many times you doubt the world around you. The people. 

And in those times, the only solace I have found is words. 

 

Spoken. You tell me you love me, tell me you want me. Tell me you know it's not okay, but promise it will be. 

 

Lyrical. The same lines. Translated one thousand different times. Meaning more to each one of us than the artist imagined. That one line of the song you can not forget.

 

Story. A world created. To be lost in, to escape. Someone else's troubles to distract.

 

Poetry. Poetic. My favourite. Spontaneous. And free. And all consuming. Controlling, And yet empowering. 

 

And even as I get lost in my latest trance. 

Of words that seem to write themselves. 

I wonder what you'll think.

I'm ready to be criticised. 

To question who I am, again. 

For my question fuels my what you call, creativity.  

 

So tell me you hate me. 

Hate my words. 

It will hurt.

But give me an hour. If I'm lucky 5 minutes. 

I will write and I will feel.

 

And I will let the pain control me. 

For by choosing when it controls me. 

Surely i can at least have a little control?

For even when I'm lost, in words, I know exactly where I am.