Sometimes I express myself in silence and through observation.
Other times I express myself through laughter and dance.
And the rest of the time I express myself gladly in words.

Yet words have proven to be unreliable and unfaithful to thee:
They flatter and condemn even when my intentions are pure;
They delight and confuse even when my mind is filled with clarity;
They heal and injure even when I purposefully leave them unspoken in my heart.

Words, you are a double-edged sword that tantalises and taunts my existence.
You are a lifetime friend and foe that truly defines my essence.
So, I will never turn my back on you – the colourful ink of my soul.
For you give life and spirit to the (im)potency of my expression.

If He Wrote a Letter

If he wrote a letter, it wouldn’t be to finalise a will.
It also wouldn’t be to justify an entry to heaven.

If he wrote a letter, it would only be to say: “I have lived and I am thankfully”!
And signed or unsigned, we would all know that in death his was the last word.
So death, listen and be not proud; for you remain a medium without expression.