I wrote you a letter in Latin,
But I couldn't read it.
I admit, I thought the class
Was an easy credit.
Not the phrases, but my nuance
Needing mending.
Felt a lie, and I'm not so good
At pretending.
You just couldn't see the hand
I was extending,
As into the wallpaper
I kept blending.
Perhaps it's my fault, since
I wore that shirt.
Standing out's the quickest
Way to get hurt.
But speaking from the diaphragm
I can bellow,
And orate like some old dead
Roman fellow.
Standing out and looking
Like a plain fool
Reciting broken Latin
Learned in high school.
My only benediction is
The violence of my voice,
To compensate the losses of
The silence of my choice
Standing naked 'fore the masses
Flawless Latin being read,
Without the slightest clue as to
What any of it said.
Then you looked at me with pain
In your dark brown eyes,
When at last, my folly
You had realized.
You said that, though my effort
Brought you much joy,
"Latinas don't speak Latin,
My dear, dumb boy. "
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
I wrote you a letter in Latin,
But I couldn't read it.
I admit, I thought the class
Was an easy credit.
Not the phrases, but my nuance
Needing mending.
Felt a lie, and I'm not so good
At pretending.
You just couldn't see the hand
I was extending,
As into the wallpaper
I kept blending.
Perhaps it's my fault, since
I wore that shirt.
Standing out's the quickest
Way to get hurt.
But speaking from the diaphragm
I can bellow,
And orate like some old dead
Roman fellow.
Standing out and looking
Like a plain fool
Reciting broken Latin
Learned in high school.
My only benediction is
The violence of my voice,
To compensate the losses of
The silence of my choice
Standing naked 'fore the masses
Flawless Latin being read,
Without the slightest clue as to
What any of it said.
Then you looked at me with pain
In your dark brown eyes,
When at last, my folly
You had realized.
You said that, though my effort
Brought you much joy,
"Latinas don't speak Latin,
My dear, dumb boy. "
Facepalm
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