Written Words
What good are words, left unread, unsaid, and for dead?
What good are the words; meaningless outside dictionaries ans obituaries?
How can we speak when we live so other from one another?
Have crafted sentences ever meant anything, something?
Pages are worn more than the clothes on those,
Who swear by etched grooves of ink and think,
They live lives worth recording and thoughts worth hoarding.
To flex the mind is noble but nobler still is life and strife.
There’s no killing time; no waiting around to be put in the ground.
Life is not short; it just goes as quickly as this prose.
There’s nothing wrong living for art, but in your head you might as well be dead.
Know the words will fade, bleached and leached.
Write but live first; words are hard to hear from inside a hearse.
