Written Words

Charged and convicted in an instant. Keen on leaving trails of evidence all over my existence. Maybe because the written word is my sole language. Perhaps because my cowardice turns a pen into my voice and converts a piece of paper into my listener. My intimidated trembling words come out firm when translated onto print. Letting go of my fears, hiding my inhibitions behind strokes of blue ink. And it makes no sense. Words banish the instant they become verbal, whilst rending perennial when recorded. Memory plays tricks distorting spoken words, whilst truth is captured in note pads, available for reference, at hand when evoking feelings from the past. I should find it easier to speak than to write. And yet, these moments linger on my shelves. They survive in the boxes the letters occupy and the drawers where the Christmas, birthday, anniversary and other (once special) occasions' cards are kept. Self-confessed to crime.