Thought pattern

Words failed her over and over again. What was it that it was so much easier to just let out a scream over the top of the trees or bleed color in the water? She’d tell you the most beautiful thoughts, but the sound of her own voice and wording never did it justice. Never delicate and nuanced enough. Explain the beauty of this old oak tree desk, all it’s patterns, marks and discoloration. Scent of the soil, dream within a dream, softness of the touch. So shy to speak. Terrified to dissect the thought. Jeopardize it’s pureness with muffling not even remotely resembling language. If she could show somehow..