Empty shells.

But,darling, words are easy.
I could say that I would cross the seven seas for you, turn the tides, chase away storms, lay myself at the altar of your salvation, walk on jagged glass till I bleed myself dry. I could say that I would wring out every last drop of blood and sweat for you,shed every last tear. For you.
But would any of it matter, if words were all they were? Beautiful, lovely, shallow and empty words.
Eloquence can come cheap and easy,and the most beautifully worded poetry may ring false through and through.
Because just words mean nothing. They are the clouds which promise rain but do not shed a drop on parched land. They are the chips packets that you cut open to find to be nothing but expensive air.
Don’t fall for hollow, honeyed words. For sweet-sounding, shallow promises that will never come to fruition.
For the enticing, enchanting, alluring charm that the right words have. The way they make you feel special; the way they can make you dream rosy,intoxicating dreams, taking you to dizzying heights. But these dreams are labyrinthine. Gilded catacombs that are easy to get lost in.
For it does not do to forget that the same sweet words can turn, and become barbed and painful, lashing out mercilessly, leaving wounds that no eyes can see, but can be felt even more keenly than any physical injury. That can take years to heal,to lose their sting.
For the same words that make you feel warm and fuzzy one day may leave you broken and sobbing the next.
For words can be the sweetest, most exquisite messengers of love; but they can just as easily be weapons as well.



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