48 pages of text
 and not a single thought
 words drip from my mind
 but no feelings

 so i sit here and keep writing
 words, words, words.
 nothing
 nothing to read but words

 i would say that it's me
 but it can't be me
 then the fault would be mine
 and i don't want that

 i don't want to see the words,
 words that i fear to write
 words telling me what i've done
 and where i am going

 i think that i should just write
 and hope they never show
 they could never help
 because they are just words.

 it's funny how many words we have
 and how so few we use
 but we claim to speak
 all the time not saying feelings

 is it possible i wonder
 to be more than words on a page
 to feel the thoughts and energy
 of each passing phrase

 then i notice we say more
 to ourselves and others
 when we don't talk
 when there are no words

 would it be so bad
 to have no words.
 "                       "
 and "                  ."

 where would we read
 in parks that we didn't need
 where would write
 poems that are not right

 would we just sit idly by
 and watch the clouds
 never showing others
 that which we see

 for it is through words we speak
 we love
 we care 
 we are.

 But we cannot be without words
 and now I have none.
 I have words,
 but that is all they are.

 I try to pour feelings into them,
 like water into a funnel.
 they slowly drip out,
 and then it's empty.

 So I write and I write and I write.
 Nothing
 Then I have it.
 Words.

 That is what I shall write.
 I shall write words.
 And us all that I have,
 To make others see.

 For it's not the feelings I give
 But what is read into the words.
 That is what gives them power
 And gives me strength.

 So, these words shall be mine,
 And others shall read them,
 Word, after word, after word.
 And then they'll know.

 But I can't say what they'll know,
 Not in this poem.
 For then I will have told,
 That which you must find on your own.