Words - Poem by Aindre ReeceSheerin

So what then are Words?

Well Word is, of and by itself a Four Letter Word; one might, therefore, be forgiven for saying, that as
Words is the plural, that Words is a series of, Four Letter Words.
Words are what helps form and build cultures and, in the first instance need never be written as most
languages are passed down generation to generation without the need to write and or understand the
written Word. Words are by their very nature, utterances put together into an accepted collective which
we agree mean something to us. They can form the basis of anything from Phonics, to Music, to Sign
Language to the Spoken and Written Word.
What then are words to me? ; they are everything and they are nothing at all; they are what cut so deep
and which heal in an instant; they can tread me down and yet lift me up to previously, unimaginable
heights.
Are Words Mathematical or a form of Weapon? Gifts that are ours to take, to give and to use freely?
Often we hear people say, I give you my Word or count on my Word, my Word is my Bond.
You sent me words recently and everything that we were about was based upon words more so in the
initial stages. We relied on the words of the other and believed even if with some incredulity, the words
the other used to share experiences.
I have always been Good with Words. Yet, now when I most need them, Words fail me. How can I
possibly express what desperation I feel, What deep, deep loss I am experiencing; how my arms ache to
hold you once more, to stroke your eyebrow and sing low and soft as you drift off to sleep or come with
me to that place that only you can take me.
Would that I could write a sonnet of the greatness of my love, would that I could lift you up and sing your
praises once again and see and feel the magic in your eyes. Yet, what am I doing, right here, right now?
I am but using Words mere valueless Words because Words have no currency, they are without honour,
they are without rhythm or rhyme, they cannot speak, they cannot sing, nor can they sign or touch you,
they have no life of their own, they are dependant on you and me.

We are for want of a better Word, their God, we give them life;
as one of the great composers said in relation to music they are but scratchings on a piece of
manuscript, it is you and I who must give them life
These, Words carry within them in their use a huge sense of Honour, of Responsibility in how we Write
them, in how we Send them, in how we Sing them, in how we Speak them in the essence of how we
Communicate using them.
Words then are my life, my experiences, my poor ability to try even feebly to express how I am feeling;
they are everything to me as long as I have energy and wish to use them; they own me every bit as
much as I own them