Friday, May 22, 2015

Of Reading and Writing (This is art)

(Of Reading and Writing) This is art
I am a reader and I wish to read
Of the poet’s lofty heart.
The worlds he creates and the experiences he curates
To the reader he imparts.

I long to travel with him beyond
The realms of reality,
Of ethereal worlds, of sinful thrills
Of what happens next to “me”.

But why, oh why, to my dismay
I try and soundly fail
To understand and comprehend
The writer’s intent and will.

“’Tis madness, ‘tis folly, ‘tis gibberish”
I often would exclaim.
Why does everything laid out on this page
Make none of the sense it claims?

But I also am a writer and am
Compelled instinctively,
To lay out all of what I feel,
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.

‘Tis pity then that words often fail
To capture faithfully
The essence, the soul, of being and thought:
What eyes would fail to see.

How 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! ‘Tis far the gap between
Of Reading and of Writ,
On one hand wish I to comprehend
On the other the heart to hit.

O how then can these two unite?
O how to reconcile?
“ ‘Tis art!” I’m sure, of course it is:
But who can really tell?

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