Words - where would I be without you?

Isn't it true, that if I had everything I want,
if I was sleeping on a bed of satisfaction,
I would have no use for the books by my bedside,
for the poetry hovering in the air above me,
for these words that I write here?

And isn't it true, that then
I would destroy something willfully,
lose things deliberately,
only to pick up the books
and hold on to them through the night
looking for support,
to catch hold of the poetry
to keep myself from getting lost,
to write words here,
to lose myself in the great feeling
of words taking birth in your mind and through your hands,
appearing on a screen.

Words - where would I be without you?

Why obtain something, why possess something,
when you can spend a life with words
lamenting its absence, crying its loss?