(( wrote this after an extended blog conversation with another talented poet friend of mine about the limits of the written word and language. As good/succinct/clear as a writer strives to be, there always exists the possibility of misunderstanding, and that can be very frustrating! She inspired it (Thanks again, E!), and rather than use an image for this one, I think it's more appropriate to let the words do the talking this time...)
Thick as the speed of clotted thoughts, This language suffices; A cumbersome tool. Experience sought (and bought) The sacrifices That made wiser men From ignorant fools. Words escape. You. Me. They cannot be caught, Yet aren’t quite free, For every one comes attached to a thought, And for every action, It was birthed in naught but Electrical energy -- Brain waves of….what? Symbols understood, with meaning, But none can accurately catch the dreaming, Teeming shores of what it means to live. Sensation lingers in the mind’s mouth, Tasting phrases. Sifting variations of description, Through this medium’s sieve. It still lacks The richness of the moment’s impact. In fact, It’s amazing communication takes place. Limited as we are, By our lack Of (understanding) The rigidity of moving back And forth, Through Time and Space. Seeking to capture a feeling, A sight, To explain human nature -- Thus, stealing it, right? We take from experience, And categorize. We label our labors, And ceaselessly prize the “Hows“, And “Whys”, But Language, The bridge of the written word… *sighs* Though inadequate, Sometimes succeeds, And we’re “heard”.
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