Part One:

I hear music in my head
but I can't learn the notes.
I can read novels in my heart
but I can't arrange the verbs.

There's poetry carved into my skin
but blood doesn't work as ink.
It's all here in my head
but it won't come out with my crooked soul.

Part Two:

Failure to communicate.
A hunger I cannot sate.
While a poet bangs away at my brain,
My clumsy fingers inscribe only a fraction of the pain.

Hands cold with confusion.
Numb to the heart's passionate intrusion.
Searching blindly for the spark of life
To finally rid me of this desperate strife.

You're only a vibration

pressed to scrap metal,
burned to a disk.

I can hold your voice with one hand;
I can hold your melodies with my ears.
I can hold you in my heart,
fool my body into your presence.

For epithelial tissue
is not so clever,
it cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality,
love and necessity.

Sound travels 768 miles per hour, a pace my heart races,
but I'll die before I win that game.