I could tell you how to think.
I could repeat the words
of Old Masters to try to sound profound
and aloof with some sort of higher knowledge than you.
I might recount the pain of a child starving,
trying to get your heart to bleed, or race
to flutter, fly or fall. I could try
to compose my thoughts on paper, but even
from lips to ears their meaning is lost
so on paper they would have even less power.
I could try to change your life. The way you think
about an apple blossom or how you speak
with luring words to a potential mate.
I could weave you a story to keep you on the edge of your seat
or mind; in your lovers arms, or all alone.
I could try to detach myself,
attempting omnipotence compared to you.
Even trying to speak to you through words would
be an empty effort, though.
For who wants to listen to a stranger
and have them tell you how to think
how to breathe and let loose;
dance to the rhythm of life setting your mind on a new beat?
Who will read these words and be affected?
Would it help then, if I made myself known?
If we were related, or entangled or embraced
would these words be more than words to you?
Would you listen if I told you why the sky was blue
or your eyes were gray or why the world turns
in a specific rhythmic patterned way?
I could try to tame the storm of English to tame the storm of your mind.
I could attempt to write a world for you:
an escape
or a solitude. I could write my heart on paper for you.
Open it up: it’s secrets and it’s thump-thump reasoning.
I could convince you it beat for you and only you, but really
it is just science.
I could tell you how to be happy, but happy is relative.
I could try to describe the feeling I get when I am not alone,
the breath of another mingled with mine,
but experiences are experienced individually and I am not in your mind.
I cannot think the way you do nor affect people the way you can.
You may be a pilot bringing people across the globe into each other’s arms;
or an artist painting the portrait of a dying girl;
or an engineer building bridges between hearts.
But I am a poet, and all I have are words.
But who will listen to a stranger?
What would it take for these words to be more than words to you?
I do not know for I am no philosopher or doctor. I don’t know
who you are or how you work, so trying to convince you
that I am all-knowing
is pointless and painful. So many of us suffer because of that vain effort.
I could try to write you a companion but the comfort we each desire
is unique.
Your dreams are not my dreams, and my dreams perhaps,
would not make sense to you.
My happiness is not yours. Nor is my favorite flavor ice-cream
yours. If I were to write you the feeling I get from smelling daisies
it might mean nothing to you
because it is not in your vocabulary, or doesn’t bring you my peace.
I could write my breath and it’s puff-puffing from running
but then I’d have to detail how the oxygen works it’s way into my lungs.
I could say that he is my oxygen, but what does he mean to you?
I could tell you not to be scared of the dark, but
darkness, too, is relative. For inside a lit room at night,
the window is stark in contrast. But stand outside for awhile,
and your eyes will adjust like getting used to the pain if it is incessant
and everlasting.
And who wants to listen to a stranger?
Who wants to know the inside of my mind when they have their own
to figure out? The maze of synapses that only make sense to you
and to me they are indeed a maze.
I could tell you that when I see rain I think of cobblestone streets in London,
but who, besides me, would connect those things?
And who wants to listen to a stranger?
The only thing I may attempt is to bring myself closer to you
through words.
Because they are all I have
and with them, I can tell you anything.