words cannot know
what would a word say if they did?
what do words know of my fear
how do they know how to describe what keeps me awake at night?
there are no words
there simply aren’t enough well defined marks in vernacular
will is indeed in deed
actions are story enough
in act my poetry is writ
wrought with written wells of ink beneath a breadth of words
that still call me to tell.
but, what do words know?
all that can be known
slyly slightly weights what’s shown
and words tip nothing
not head, heat, or hat
the concrete truth of it
the bare concrete burden
is that no one can ever
see what keeps me awake at night
the shadows, the fear, the blood wrenching terror.
words don’t know how to do that.
and how about you?
can words aptly paint pretty picture for you?
do they swell to paint your conversations swell so well that you might as well never leave home?
how about the porn star?
can he describe what he sees?
can he describe how the eyes of the not-a-lover in front of him
makes him feel?
what would you think of him if he were to describe
how her eyes remind him of mother
then, what would you think when you found out that he tried desperately to remember his boyfriend’s face while spewing lewd onto hers?
words do not paint
words do not know how to paint
they do not see, or feel, or carve, or breathe
they only sing
twisting nuances out of color and shape
making perverse verse, vain vein exposing vane exposition
spoiling sight on the spot
I can’t paint you a picture
I don’t have any words that know how to do that
I can only describe.
And how can I describe what I can’t see?