Sometimes words feel like a burden that I have to carry, backpack full of nouns and verbs. They feel heavy and daunting, like obligation.
Sometimes words feel forced and contrived. Sometimes words are familiar like a friend, close like a brother, intimate like a lover.
Sometimes putting words on pages feels like the only thing, the only way.
Sometimes words ink easy onto paper, playful words beautifully posed. Sometimes words bleed through bandages of old wounds covered, forgotten. Sometimes words spell Ugly.
Sometimes words bring relief; sometimes fear. Sometimes words put flesh to mystery.
Sometimes words bring to light the Truth and cast out the lies.
Sometimes I wrap them around myself, like a warm blanket, when I feel chilled and my heart rubs raw.
Sometimes words feel like a curse; sometimes like blessing.
Sometimes I’m tempted to leave them be, abandon my brain-box of jumbled up letters. Sometimes I want to stick them on the side of the road labeled only Free.
But sometimes I realize that words aren’t easily separated from my sense of self.
I am words and full of words itching to get out, little syllables of me, gathered together, forming new things—sounds with meanings and reasons and stories to tell.