The silence in our words

Why do we write when we can talk? Why do we talk when one can write? Does writing fulfill a need to speak? Do people speak too much? For some reason there are people who, unlike some others, can do nothing but speak. They speak what is on their minds and in their hearts. Why I ask can I not express what is in my mind. It is hard to form the words that would release the pressure on my heart. I write the words but they don't tell the story that I want them to tell. The words write themselves. Those words write me.
The secret words that want to be written come out spelled differently. They do not obey me.
Do these words that people write, do they express their needs? These artist, these authors do they not hide themselves in their words? Oh if the world were filled with just words and not talk could we then express our hearts?
I wonder what these words would say if I could let them spell themselves. And why can you not stop saying what is in your heart and let me express myself the way I want?
The black ink so elegantly scrawls itself on the white innocent page. The devil itself takes hold and destroys any hope of purity. The ink, the sin. Oh thou vanquished soul how hast thou left this world for a castle in the sky?
The words I want they laugh at me. Well here is what I think of you.
What are words if we do not write them? Is there an answer? And do I just answer my questions with more questions? These are just words that strung together may or may not form a sentence and in the end of life what do these sentences form? If we but form ourselves like these sentences we may as well just speak what is in our minds. Our circle has come, the end is near. What have we learned but what we wrote. We write what we cannot say. We say what we cannot write. But the words don't form on our lips. In the end we write our hearts on a page disguised by the black of the ink and the white of the page. In the end we just write our stories and deal with the silence.