I play tribute to words when I etch them onto my arm with a new black sharpie.
I doodle until I find it fitting to stop, but I never do.
My body becomes a canvas, my mind spinning with thoughs I cannot contain.
They all get illegibly written in script on my left shoulder.
They mean nothing to me, but are supposed to.
The lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody play in my head,
I write those too, but on my worn, blue converse instead.
Those are words I adore.
The words that have a love affair with a melody I could never compose.
The words that tell me a story, and not try forcing me to feel what I cannot.
Spending minutes, hours and days trying to grasp the ideas in Romeo and Juliet.
What a wicked tale.
Another for the list of briliant minds who give me nothing to do but sit in awe.
Because words lose meaning over time.
Stories, though, gain value with age.
Like my grandmother's overworn pearls.
I write not for love of words, but fascination for what they can do.
A word alone can bring conviction.
Five thousand words can execute.
On my arm.
On the side of an abandoned church building.
On a car.
In a pamphlet.
In a book.
Written in the sky by Lucy herself.
Starting in the mind of one.
Sometimes ending in the thoughts and dreams of many.
And they were alll once but words...