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.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
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.
Title is a quote by young adult author John Green. Don't know who he is? Find out. Right now.
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