I would rather hear a thousand whispers than a comment
On how my words struck your body asphyxiated
I’d like to know that I beat the innocence out of your festering mind
Not because you told me so, but because I can see it in your eyes
With the way you no longer try to see
I would like to know that you lie in bed recalculating
The different ways I which I could have told you different
But knowing my way was best
I’d like to know that you rub my words back in forth in your hands like lotion
That you let them sink in like the titanic, that holds many stories
Each word holds many stories
I’d like to guess that you could read every story that I write for you
But there are more stories within the stories I have written, unwritten
Not even I have been able to read all I have told
I’ll thrust a book of run on words into reader’s faces and they’ll read each one
And all would resume what I have told them.*
Yet know nothing more than they did before
They already know what I have told them, they just didn’t know it could sound so bundled
In metaphors that hold a key to something deeper
How many people can unlock another writer’s world?
That holds meanings abyssal than anyone has thought of
Not one person can, not even the writer
Only the story.
*Whitman
YOU ARE READING
Pages of Yesterday
PoetryJust a collected works of poetry, in no specific order, about anything and everything. Many will allude to Whitman since I am currently studying him in my creative writing class.
