I am writer; I have nothing but my words to give. Can any of us really walk through life and claim not to know this fear?

Don’t you get it? I have nothing to give you but my words.
Words, words, mere ripples in the air and the scratch of black on white.
I am a hollow shell of a man, a fragile facade so paper thin I crumble at the touch of your pleading hands.
My soul resounds with a beauty my body will never realise. I can craft for you the finest bouquet of flowers, to adorn your angel face and braid through your night locked hair, but nothing of substance will ever grow from the branches of my labor.
Were I to charm the very birds from the sky, were I to capture lightning in an inkwell and distill the sound of God’s voice through the stroke…