Passion behind words is something I worry I feel alone.
I’ve tried sharing my passion of vocabulary,
my passion of poetry with others,
tried showing them the entire novels only
a few lines can write,
and I worry that I seem insane.
I worry that they don’t understand me,
that I’m misinterpreted.
No, I am not saying I feel smarter than you,
I am saying I find beauty in these words,
these stories.
My father calls it beatnik.
He believes spoken word poetry exists nowhere but a paper,
that it is not meant to be spoken,
that it is a lesser version of rap--
which he also hates.
I pattern my syllables or rhyming to create what I see as art,
only to have others raise an eyebrow and wonder
what my “damage” is.
Distinguishing my deterioration is not the objective at hand.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.