Words are wonderful
So full of possibilities,
But they are a deceit
And from them even greater deceits are drawn
To tell the truth
Means to render the truth into a lie
To take the truth and build a crude facsimile of it
Made of words
No more real than a character in a story
Nor any less
Sometimes words are tossed about
Like love, and truth, and baseball
It’s a hit or miss thing
And sometimes words flow
From some immutable source like
Oily pearls of inspiration
And sometimes words
Have to be squeezed out painfully
From the pimples of our despair and frustration
To strike the image of ourselves
In the mirror
And remind us that it is not real
Literature in Small Doses 