Only Words

As a writer,
It's hard to admit
That my art, in theory,
Is meaningless.
Words are just that,
So many times used
With no intention
And no drive
Yet we take them to heart.
We hold them
And don't let go.
We don't admit that
They mean nothing.
The things we should
Truly cherish, we don't.
A writer only knows
To appreciate that with
Which he expressed himself.
While not satisfying or fulfilling,
It is reassuring.
We should be smarter to know
That words can be manipulated
To create illusions of
comfort and safety,
But we still accept them
And let them take control
For they are all we know
And if no one ever shows us
How to feel real emotion
Then we surely never will.