Thoughts, feelings, beliefs, opinions. Of each of these, we all have millions, Maybe billions, Not even, we have trillions. Articulate them with words and sounds, Figurative language, Some of us so much so that we're drowned By this small affiliation, slight fixation, huge obsession, With the words, Such power to them, they astound And pound us into the ground with their meaning. We surround ourselves with it all, Around us we've wound up with nothing else in the background Than these words. But they aren't just words, now are they? For some it is their legacy, Their ancestry, It is our history in some cases, The roots that we have grown from, The roots that have sprouted the tree That we cultivate until the leaves and the breeze produced Are nothing less than satisfactory. The words have given birth to the mystery, The pleasantry, And the absolute artistry That we have come to call poetry.