On words

Words don't come easy to me.

But numbers and formulas, all so familiar

Codes and symbols, each full of meaning, not a single byte too much

or too little

That's another story.

A precise haven in a world where we worship the superfluous

And surrounded by the chaos of the redundant.

I find myself wondering if, among all this mess,

is there really need for yet another poem, yet another blabbering

Meant solely as an outlet, without conveying anything vital?

Then again, words come easy to me

Getting lost in the rhythm of the repeated sound, formed in the mind, shaped by the fingers,

and given life by a set of eyes, and sometimes empowered with the flick of the tongue and lips.

But still completely independent of everything involved that is biological,

Standing alone, flaunting it's metaphorical existence,

A mirror to whoever it encounters, and that after serving as a relief to its creator.

And yet, words don't come easy to me

With each sentence completed, it's another step away from provable facts

And explanations become in order, self evidency runs away crying

The elegance and completeness of a single formula melts away

And words, in scores, scurry to fill the harrowing gap, haphazardly.

And yet there are words for the things we haven't yet devised a mathematical expression for

Like the emptiness in ones heart, when reminded of past mistakes,

Or the joy the same overflows with, upon discovering the possibility

of describing another stubborn concept

using only symbols and math...