598. Contradicting Paradox

December 23rd, 2020

XII.XXIII.MMXX

1118-1126

I may be a poet

But I am a paradox.

For words mean

Nothing and everything.

As a poet

I weave words

In hopes of meaning

And solace.

I write because

I want to give hope

To the hopeless

And the struggling.

I want them to feel

That they are not alone

And that success can be had

Even though all is dark.

So I write on and on

In hope of giving hope

So that others may

Have a light.

For I know the strength of words

And what they can mean

For someone

Isolated and desolate.

Yet I know myself

To be a contradicting paradox

When it comes to

The subject of words.

For many a time

I was promised

And those words

Amounted to nothing.

Vows and oaths

While supposedly well meant

Were ceremonious

And nothing more.

So I came to distrust

Words spoken by others

That promised action

That never came.

Thus I put less and less stock

Into the sounds

That teased my heart

In the hopes of actions.

While I am not untrusting,

I am wary of words

For I know my reality

Made up of the past.

I am soured by it

For that is my experience.

But I still give

The benefit of the doubt.

Yet nothing is

Until it is come.

Be what it is

Yet not quite.

So I explore myself

And the paradox

Of contradictions

Nestled within my innermost.

I am a poet,

Knowing the power of words,

And I am the misled,

Knowing the nothingness of words.