I'm not going to rant to you
as you may not understand

You have always said
promised to me, over and over again
that you will be there to talk to
if i ever dare feel the need

In a moment of weakness
i try to use the words
that i know you will not understand

english is a harsh language
With hard, stiff, stone letters
Sharp words
Blunt
The tough, callused hand
better at beating you down
Than helping you up

Other languages
A way to comfort you in a relation
a way to turn these stiff ways of the tounge
to silk and fresh water
to something
easily, gentally, softly felt
As smooth as a cold, gliding glacier's stream

English is the langague
for facts, explanations
plain, blunt topics
It's hard to have words for feelings
Emotions
ways of the heart
But other lanauges don't have words for such things
They have words, phrases, exchanges, dialects, customs
for moments
for memories
for dreams, almost out of reach

So when I try to explain to you
What i am going through
behind the "I'm fine."

"You know what I mean?"
"Uh, not really"
Well ****
Now you know the thoughts inside my head
Twisted by your interpritaion
your intake
of me

The fire building inside
   Should cause an alarm

But no one sees
    Nor feels the heat

It rises and grows
    As no one listens

Then finally you'll hear
    There she blows

I speak to the trees about my qualms; knowing they will keep them rooted and hidden from the world above.

I cry with the rain about my dysphoria; so that it's curved drops might cleanse me and wash away any anguish.

I whisper to the burning fire about my desires; so that they may ignite and transform into something unquenchable.

I confide in the wind about my loneliness; so that it might blow someone onto  my path so that I would be given a reply to all the things the trees, rain, fire, and wind have heard but could never give me an answer.