Plucky Thoughtfullness

Different

You never asked me what I was writing.

You knew it. Sometimes I write.

But you never really cared.

"Thoughts," I replied. Or "I don't know."

But you never wanted to read it.

Why?

Writing doesn't mean anything to you. You're not a poet.

Words don't have that kind of power for you. You just say it. Without being aware of what they're doing to me.

Sometimes, it's lies. Gently wrapped in petals. Beautiful from the outside.
But I recognize them. Don't let me be blinded by the illusion.

Sometimes, there are little needles that stick under my skin and into my heart.

Sometimes, they are rocks. You put them on me. Stack them. Until it gets harder and harder. I can't take the pressure anymore.

Sometimes, they're just air. I can feel the draft on my skin. As the words pass by. But actually, they're empty. It doesn't matter. Faded as fast as they showed up.

You don't worry before you say something. To you, it's words. Just words can't hurt, you think.

No, you're not a poet. And neither a poem.

You think a lot. About what might hurt you. What I do. How I lie.

But in everything, you think of yourself. It's always yourself.

But you don't think of the deeper meaning. You don't think about the meaning of things. Meaning of words.

You're not deep. I've never been able to talk to you about these meanings.

Maybe that's why you can't interpret me.

My statements that deeply confuse you. You don't see what it means. Even though it's so serious. It's so heavy, I can barely carry it anymore.

But you don't see it. You can't hear it. And you can't feel it either.
You're not taking the weight off me. Don't help me carry it.

I've always been confusing to you.

I may not be a poet, but I am a poem.

And you're none of it.

You never asked me what I was writing.

Even though you knew.

Would I have let you read it if you'd asked?

You wouldn't have understood anyway. And if you understand me, than just wrong.

My words would have only made you angry. Because you carry so much of it in you.

You're not a poet. And neither a poem. That's why you don't know how to deal with me. And with my words.

My words are serious. Carefully chosen. Full of meaning. Deep.

Your words are serious, too. For me. Carelessly chosen. From you.

I may not be a poet, but I am a poem.

And you're none of it.

You never asked me what I write.

Even though you knew.

But I wouldn't have let you read it anyway.

You don't understand me when I'm talking. And if you understand, than just wrong. Why should you understand me when I write?

I wonder if you'll ever wonder that. What I wrote.

Will you read my words one day?

No, you're not a poet. And neither a poem.

You're different.