I’ve seen too many empty words
On papers covered with text
Like rows of parallel lines and
I’m painfully waiting for them to converge.
And I wonder how you can speak with all your might
And still not be heard,
Am I simply not choosing the right words?
Maybe this rhyme wasn’t timed
Just right
For your head to ignite
With all the fury that spins inside of me
Like tornadoes of dirt in an open space
Where there is so much potential
But no one is there to observe
How I can sometimes form images
Out of reckless stanzas of
Sounds that bounce just right
In the pits of my mind.
I still twirl around in circles sometimes
Collecting debris of those
Who have been misheard and
Misinterpreted as
Deadly villains in stereotypical stories
Where their side of the story
Is simplified into scenes of disturbance.
I’ve seen too many bland sentences
In essays that we’re told to embrace,
When these chunks of information cannot hold themselves up
Without a spine of meaning and supporting points
Of relevance
And you always sit there wondering
What the hell counts as relevant?
When there are thousands of combinations
Making up thousands of words that have yet
To grace our impatience.
I am still waiting,
Knees bouncing and hands drumming
In silent lectures about everything
And sometimes I think it might amount to nothing
If I can’t make it interesting
Interesting enough for me to want to weave it into
My natural disaster of a technique
And call it a piece of myself;
A work of poetry.