The Words

Sometimes words just flow like tears
Coming on suddenly, without warning
Lasting for what seems like forever
But never expressing enough
There will always be more to come
Deep within, it creeps to the surface
Dormant for so long, it bleeds out
Dripping with emotion, ups and downs
Often with despair, often with joy

Sometimes, however... they do not come
The silence inside is overwhelming
Cracking like dry clay, wasting away
The emptiness takes hold of all
As though nothing real or true remains
Consuming fire turns triumph to ashes
Cobwebs and dust begin to take shape
Time sweeps by, days turn to months
Seems as though the words will never return

What a fickle thing these words are
Coming and going as they please
Filling the soul with frustration, confusion
Indecisive and volatile, with golden breath
They breathe hope, then grief to our hearts
They bring us closer, while tearing us apart
A writer's curse, the broken mind
When words come calling, a rush of life
But when they forsake us, silent ruins