Poetry
Inscribed
Upon my soul
Don’t paint my portrait in
Thin, flimsy layers
Two-dimensional representations
Of the impression taken
Viewing my veneer
Stain my soul
With your intensity
Ask me everything
You’ve ever wondered while
Staring, weeping into the sea
I’ll pour out my inky
Blasphemies
Revealing the tessellating
Pattern of indecipherable
Prophecy plucking at my strings
Shaping lyrics from
Letters we salvaged
From the teeming
Shores of the dye
Laden deep
The ritual of sentence
Construction
Perfectly aligned ideas
Spread mass destruction
Or heal as they’re perceived
Dive with me heart-deep
Plunder the tomb of
Yesterday’s mistakes
Dispell their power
Unspeak the decree
If I released
Streaming my consciousness
Word for word
Rendered comprehensively
Then, could our two minds relate?
K.B. Silver
My struggle to communicate effectively is one of life's most paradoxically frustrating things. No matter how few or how many words I seem to use, I struggle desperately to be understood. This is most pronounced when speaking aloud, even when I am saying or reading something I have prepared ahead of time to specifically combat this.
If I am writing a poem, there is subtext and room to read between the lines. When I am in any real-life situation and make a statement of fact or declare a personal need, there isn’t. “I need to leave” isn’t a commentary on the location; it’s stating that I need to leave, usually because I am becoming too ill to remain. “I am allergic to that food” isn’t an attack on that food or “an excuse.” It is simply a fact and the reason I will not be eating it.
From my point of view, being willing to share my reasons and not abruptly refusing is respectful and kind. How frequently it is construed as the opposite is overwhelmingly disappointing.
