Words die too

Words are words?
No; words aren’t just words.
They mean several things
But they mean nothing.

Spoken lies, untold truths;
Masked designs, empty booths;
I like to hide behind their lines
And take my time to check the rhymes.

Often, words spoken end up
In my bucket of shame,
When my emotion’s left
And sawed the chains.

The things I say can
Often be forgotten,
Or at least fade
Inside my head
Until they’re blurry
But still loud somehow…

But written ones,
Carved in dead trees,
Seem to last long enough
For the past to feel
Like a reminder
That nothing’s real,
At least not forever.

Maybe I’ll still mean today
What I meant yesterday,
But tomorrow,
The words inside and out
Will shift and leave
The ones you read and heard
Emptier than they used to be.

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