Truth of Words

What all these broken people do not see,
When they look at me,
Is that the words flowing from my hand
Do not come from me.

The pen is the vessel of the song,
The liquid music singing along
With the rhythms of my heart,
But it came to my pen from the dark.

Writers only tell their aching stories,
Think of brains as observatories
Where the words travel through
To stop for a while to look at you.

The words, the stories are their own,
We writers have only known
Their sweet love for an instant.
They came from a far distance.

We do not really know our words,
The words chose us
To give them to the page
And thanked us for an age.

But really, the words that entrance hearts
Were never really ours.
We will never know for sure
Why the words of our stories are told as ours.