Can I tell a story without words?
I don't like words, the way they sway and flounce
and bounce around my head, banging on walls
with things and whispers that don't need to be said.
It's like the things themselves corrupt and corrode
because each word is as much as a truth as it is a lie.
I want to put them to bed, maybe let them die
yet a word lives even the language sighs
Why, Why, Why do the words themselves laugh while I cry?
Soundlessly and horribly and carefully as I fly on melting wings

And look at that - the way my words have managed to twist and tie
my tongue in knots because every tale I tell is absolutely true
but being fact also makes it fiction.
And I wonder at times when things fall.
Can a story be a story if nothing tells it at all?
Can I be just who I can be and will be as just me without words or description?
Can anything be without lettering or structure?
Made to be caged and barred in and exactly as it's meant to mean?

Sometimes the answer is no, but the answer is always yes.
Because we lie with each definition and twist a life into letters
with a bottle of poison and a brush full of ink.