Words seem strange sometimes.
I’m not sure why.
They fill minds with ideas
Like cumuli fill the sky.
They flow from pen, scratch from pencil,
A never-ending stream.
They tell of what people think,
Of what people dream.
This all seems plain and simple.
Yes, that’s certainly true.
But words seem to me to be to thoughts
As sunny sky is to blue.
I’m not sure why.
They fill minds with ideas
Like cumuli fill the sky.
They flow from pen, scratch from pencil,
A never-ending stream.
They tell of what people think,
Of what people dream.
This all seems plain and simple.
Yes, that’s certainly true.
But words seem to me to be to thoughts
As sunny sky is to blue.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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