Words are a peculiar thing.
A glorious, wondrous,
stupendous, miraculous,
peculiar thing.

Words are the foundation
of knowledge, understanding,
expression, communication,
faith, doubt, confidence,
success, failure,
life, eternity,
power.

Words are the voices from the past
that bring forth echoes to the present
of words long since forgotten.
They are the frame of the present
that will support the future.

They build entire cities!
Unite nations! Shape dreams!
Construct fantasies and reality! Create life!
Express the innermost sentiments!
Give hope! Provide friendship!
Inspire!

But they also destroy.
Wreck. Demolish. Eradicate.
They erase that which they create,
and obliterate that which they did not.
They crush hopes and step on desire.
They stab the heart with cold, smooth steel.

At times, the words that pour from a pen
are as water from a fountain.
They spring forth from the song of the muse,
cascade down, sparkle in the sunlight, in a steady stream
of beautiful quintessence and eloquence.
They make ripples on the water below
that extend for miles
as the words move and are cherished by all.
They pierce the heart like an arrow from Eros.
They touch the innermost depths of the soul.

At other times
There is drought.
The fountain is dry.
The muse is tentative.
The water turns turbid and sour.
And people stop coming.
But still the words
Come out
Drip, drip
Drop.
One
At
A
Time.


And sometimes
When the hot sun
Of criticism
Has dried
The water,
Or the muck
Of self-doubt
Clogs the fountain,
Or the muse
Does not have
Another song
To sing,
The words
Just
Stop.