I am a reader and I wish to read
Of the poet’s lofty heart.
The worlds he creates, the experiences he curates,
To the reader he imparts.
I long to travel with him beyond
This dull reality,
To fantastic worlds, through sinless thrills,
Of what happens next to 'me'.
But it is often, to my despair,
Though try even as I may,
I can never fully nor truly understand
What the poet is trying to say.
What madness! What nonsense! What gibberish!
Are often the thoughts going through my mind,
As I read through countless “poetic” works whose
Meanings play hard to find.
Of Reading And Of Writing
But I also am a writer and am
Compelled instinctively,
To show others my world and whims
For bottled thoughts to be set free.
I want to tell the world how I feel
Or at least hope inwardly,
That what I think and feel
Is not my sole insanity.
It is a pity that words often fail
To capture faithfully,
The essence, the soul, of being and thought:
What eyes would fail to see.
What then? Should I say to myself:
Let loose! And open the gates of hell?
Where words lose form and who knows
What the I am trying to tell?
Ah woe! For far is the gap between
Of Reading and of Writing!
On one hand I wish to comprehend
On the other to put forth my meaning.
Oh how then can these two unite?
Oh how to reconcile?
“This is art!” I’m sure, of course it is:
But who can really tell?
