The Power Of Real Words

There is a reason that some words hit differently.

Those words get spilled directly out of a mind, of a heart, a soul. They are real.

I don’t write poetry for it to be perfect or to be revolutionary but for it to be honest and raw. They come from me, from something that is flesh and blood so that they resonate inside the mind of other flesh and blood beings.

Today we can ask robots to spew out a love song and it can in seconds. It’ll put all the right words into all the right places, choose a few poetic phrases and even a cool metaphor or two, but you can’t outsource a soul, a heart, a mind. We give prompts, yes but in the end it can only create hollow imitations of how we truly felt about the situation we want it to create from.

Real writing isn’t just about words. It’s about memory. Vulnerability. It’s about staying up too late because you have to get something out of you before it eats you alive. It’s about typing on tear soaked keys as you spill your guts onto the screen or page. It’s about trying to explain the unexplainable, even if you never post it. Even if no one claps for it. Even if the only thing it does is make you feel less alone.

There’s an honesty in that. A kind of risk you can’t replicate.

Maybe that’s why some things hit harder. Not because they’re written better but because they were actually felt. They’re bruised and uncomfortable and flawed in exactly the right way. Each word personally chosen start to end to tell a story that only I can.

That’s the difference.

That’s the power of real words.