2013/3/18

*This is part of a conversation between me and a girl. We both write poems back and forth to each other. This poem is in response to her asking if I was telling her how I felt about her "between the lines."


The language found between lines,
Is purposely caged within confines.
The tumult found within the head,
Leaves the best left unsaid.

Does it even matter that we see,
The words hidden in each degree?
What good would come if then,
We listened to the words within?

Maybe the best is better left,
Between the lines, thought bereft.
If you wanted to, you could express,
Those three words within your chest.

But how could I come to believe,
That I was not being deceived?
All the evidence poured out over months,
Has left me unsure of all the wants.

Maybe freedom of heart is close,
Maybe it is what I want most.
Even now, as I lie in bed,
I wonder at those, words left unsaid.

If you can decipher such curious rhymes,
And even still read between the lines,
Then you should understand my quandry.
And understand why I don't know if I'm free.

Because sometimes, no matter the rhyme,
There is nothing you can do this time.
Nothing will erase the past,
For me, acceptance will only come last.

If you can't imagine why I hold back,
Then perhaps take a small track.
Imagine it from my point of thought,
And maybe then you'll see why not.

If others read this, they would know me insane.
If they read ours, they would know pain.
If they read yours, they might not see your best,
But what they should see, you're a beautiful mess.

Again, for C