Useless Poet’s Pathetic Dreams

Why am I not reckless enough,
to write all day and all night?
Why can my pen not embrace each day
with poetic potential fulfilled?
Why are my troubled thoughts so poorly expressed?
Why are my feelings accounted with words inadequate?

I wish, that when I opened my mouth,
I would speak poetry.

I’d address you with metaphorical lines,
with words prescribed to paint for your eyes:
A child chasing a black bird
through a green field,
with all his youthful enthusiasm,
while grey skies ahead promise
the fading of this lad’s blessed blue skies.
If I’d speak poetry, I’d look you in the eye,
and tell you:
Despite the warm picture of the park bench on a spring day,
the cold wind rendered the scenic moment chillingly uncomfortable.
I would hold your hand,
convince you with my considered words,
that although I enjoyed the walks after dark,
the predictability of my route prevented my desired thoughts.
I’d look at the question in your eyes and
remind you of the myth of Sisyphus.
With an allusion I’d tell you this feeling begins at the dawn of time
before it slouches toward today, with his eyes fixed upon us.

If I’d speak poetry,
perhaps, without analytical explanations,
you’d receive a notion of this emotion,
through experience.

Instead, it’s more like Lennon said:
“half of what I say is meaningless”.
Except, I doubt I reach you with my unfinished sentences.
My thoughts, instead of truly expressed,
Are finished with a “or something”, “you know” or “I forgot what I said”.
Staying at the surface of these conversations fills me with so much salty water
that I fear I begin to prefer
to not speak a word,
until each correct word is conceived, carefully pronounced and duly
heard.

By JPV