She says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Baby, I want to see what I look like through your eyes.”
And immediately,
Like ripping through each word Webster put in his book,
I strip my vocabulary of every cliché about love and beauty
And loosely string them together with shaking hands,
Which my hands have grown accustom to.
I want to tell her how every time she enters a room
My stomach does this funny thing where it ties itself into knots
And my heart seems to start beat-boxing
Like it grew up in the grid-locked street blocks.
But I don’t tell her this
Because if I were to let these words out of my mouth
I know that there’s a good possibility that I will look like a crazy person.
I want to tell her that I just want her to be impressed.
To look upon me with longing in her eyes
And I’d steal her breath away like that no man ever has
And keep it in a locket concealed in my buttoned-up back pocket.
But I don’t tell her this
Because, honestly, I can’t impress with they way I dress
Or my white boy dance moves,
And the only time I ever stole anything I got caught.
I want to tell her that if her toes go
Somewhere that mine can’t follow,
I’ll sacrifice my eyes to the sky
So that I can see her every day when the sun sets west.
But I don’t tell her this
Because I couldn’t hold her with my arms dressed in flames,
And truth be told, one dose of her a day isn’t enough to get me my fix.
And so we sit in that teasing mix
Of fixated eyes exchanging
A lustful desire to unlock jaws and collide our lips,
In a beautiful disarray of tongue and teeth.
And the calming restraint to let the moment linger
Just a little longer
Because in just a little longer
This moment will be perfect.
And I am silent.
And He says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Brother, I want to see what the world looks like through your eyes.”
Time and time again I’ve humbled myself by denying the fact that
I am extraordinary
For reasons that only clear eyes can see,
Like this man,
He seems to be more fed up with the repeated routine of each and every yesterday
And envies my hope in tomorrow so he asks to borrow my insight.
I want to tell him that on those days when nothing looks familiar,
I wind up fasting;
Eating nothing but my passed down last name.
See, that’s how I meditate on my individuality,
But I don’t tell him this
Because God knows I can get starved for company
And borrow philosophies from question marks.
I want to tell him that there is beauty all around us.
It’s in every breath that’s whispered through pursed lips
And it drips down from the sky,
That’s all rain is.
But I don’t tell him this
Because sometimes even I watch the world
Through eyes filled with acid.
I want to tell him that the only thing that limits us
Is the shackles that we keep strapped down
For safety’s sake
But if we want, we could break free and run towards better days
With our heartbeats pounding in our ears.
But I don’t tell him this
Because maybe we are just two people
Who have nothing more to offer than sparks
In a world taken with fire.
And so I retire my voice
Since I don’t want to make a liar of myself,
I’m no street corner gospel
False profiteer
Selling twisted rapture to any lonely ear
Willing to empty their pockets out of desperation.
And I am silent.
She says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Baby, I want to see what I look like through your eyes.”
And He says,
“Speak to me in poetry.
Brother, I want to see what the world looks like through your eyes.”
And They say,
“Speak to me in poetry,
We want to see what life looks like through your eyes.”
But since my tongue is tongue tied
And I currently don’t mind going blind for a little while
The only thing I can think to do
Is smile and hand them my glasses.
© 2008