There are not enough words to fill my poems,
My mind is always overflowing
with ideas that have ability,
thoughts that take a hold of me,
and possibilities that could only happen
on thin slivers of trees.
I don't have enough words to describe
what a human is.
How they are so strong
that they break in the boldest places,
or how they are so weak that
they can know what pain is
and yet still wake up in the morning.
There are not enough letters in the alphabet
to make words that fully convey my regret
of not being courageous enough
to talk to more people.
Or how I wish that I knew more people
who didn't know me.
There will never be enough descriptions of love to describe what it really is;
never enough sound for her to say
what it's like to be his.
Never enough breath to explain that
she is better than the sun in his eyes.
How can they call us wise when we don't have enough words to even categorize the ways people say "I love you"?
I will never be able to say
all the things I want to say.
There will never be enough pages to hold them, to hold me.
I'll slip right off and fall
somewhere between the sheets of my bed
and the ink that bleed into them.
They will never find me,
only the pieces I've left behind.
For in all the haste to
write myself into existence,
I've been robbed blind by the notion of words. They have deceived me into thinking
that if I write enough I can find myself,
witness the human taking form on the blueprints of ink I craft,
as if there is a uniform method to
making a body
human.
But if that is to be my plight,
if that is the doom I am chained to,
then I will make myself big.
I will write stories that
cannot be contained in pages, only in hearts.
I'll live so large that books will fill walls
until they break.
I'll shatter cages with the epiphanies I make, people will see me and know that I am living.
I'll write people into heroes and thrust them into the throes of adventure,
I will make them,
awaken them to the fact that living is just too large to be imprisoned on pages.
And then, after I rattle the stars,
I'll tell whisper that yes,
there are not enough words to fill my poems, but there are enough stories in the oceans, people on the earth, dreams in the sky,
and enough fire in my bones to fight to keep telling them.
SK
