I don't understand what you're trying to say
These letters don't form words
Into thoughts formed from fragments

I don't understand what you're trying to explain
Your ideas and suggestions make no sense to me
You may have a point, but I can't figure it out

I don't understand what you want me to know

A perfect sentence must be beautiful and true
Surprising, and it must contain metaphysical dimension
But what if all sentences were perfect?
They would then cease to be original
Loose their surprise
And no longer be perfect.

How does a sentence achieve a state of perfectness?
Must it go to the gym five days a week,
Get straight A’s at school,
Play the piano,
And make all the girls swoon?

Maybe a sentence could cheat
Surround itself in a paragraph of clichés,
So it seems perfect by comparison.

My dream began
with a pronoun waking  
in the morning light,
followed by a verb  
carried in the wind
from across the lake,
as the adverb
whispered a preposition,
adjectives modified
a proper noun, and
I sailed quietly
to your beautiful name

Next month will mark 3 years
Of my long and wasted love
I fight my tears
of joy, prayers answered from above

I am not completely invisible
to you, as i thought
And yet you are still unaware
Of the heart you have caught

I remember my first sight
of you, sitting in my form
And your ****** expression  
When your uniform got torn

I remember your introduction
Your shy lowered eyes
And the quiver of your voice
Getting words out after so many tries

Now I smile out of the blue
Over our shy meetings
But you still have no clue
About me or my true feelings

When will you understand
I'll do all that I can
For my long and wasted love
I'll be content with just a friend

I sit here and I ponder
Over what the future will bring
The little time left with you
Before I'll only see you in a dream

My heart and my mind
Continue to be unsettled
I feel so restless and haggard
Like I'm fighting a battle

You have flooded my thoughts
Everyday, every night
You've turn into my light
You've brighten up my life

I have nothing to offer
No beauty or skill
All I have is my heart
What I think, what I feel

Afraid of your rejection
Afraid of your "okay"
Afraid that you will hate me
Afraid you'll turn away

Afraid that you would read this
And then you would say
"why would you write this poem?
It's embarrassing, okay?"

This is me extending a hand
Reaching out
And these words on this paper
Is me screaming out

Oh long and wasted love
I've like you a long time
It's been a secret all this while
Until my bestfriend  read my mind

I've already accepted
That nothing will happen
A thing with me and you
Is too good to imagine

Tell you this, tell you once
Make it my crime
You'll have a place in my heart
Till the end of time

Oh shy boy
If only you knew
How madly and deeply
I've fallen for you.

When the
mess bred
by ancient
logicians
is put to rest
and we dicover:
The chicken
and the egg
hatched
in two
different
places at
the same time;
Love was
an inverse
relationship
between lust
and time;
Infinity was
a universe
we couldn't see.

Will conversation
cease?

Will silence
replace
speech?

Will the larynx
become a vestige?

How will
we debate
the notes
that compose
silence?

Whyever can nobody spell anymore?
It's starting to cause me concern:
For as long as I wait,
                                   as far as I go,
It's the one thing that no one has learned.


How can it be that the grammar
Of the world is on sharp decline?
The words that they say,
                                          the sentences short
Grind sensitive ears and mind.


I know that I slip into lapses, too
Where I no longer care for perfection;
I say "runned" and use "i"
                                           where a capital would stand
Though no one's around for correction.

I wonder what you would write,
If you had the inclination to dissipate such woes.
What would be on your paper?
What if my persisting persistence and boastful amount of
hyperbolic word arrangements could be yours?
I would love to read your writes and write your wrongs,
Hopefully your wrongs are just writes
And not a totality of havoc carefully spaced between blue lines,
Whilst chaotic linguistics tend to rise from a certain muse
I guess what I'm saying is,
That I am curious to visually participate in a what seems to be
Something near impossible.
Unless you are me and I am you.
Then my job is complete and I can happily say,
Its not half bad.