I Wrote a Poem last night. Woke up and I hate it. (For Niall)

When I say I study English words, I get ‘isn’t that the language you learnt first?’ But trying to put forth thoughts from my brain is like trying to explain the way light travels in particles and waves. The way it cut through the rain like some god’s rays.

I’d like some way to say I was elevated to elation with little to no explanation, but it seems such a wasted aspiration.

I’m learning what words are worth and I’m lost searching for verses. Abused and overused trying to convey ‘truth’, It’s so easy for words to sound absurd with everything uttered so easily misconstrued semantics are what create and what ruin you. So much lost from synapse to typing, from trying intangible angles of experience in writing. Don’t relax your syntax, it’s a flexible lexicon but you’ve got to know what you’re trying to show – or just live in hope. Frustrated sitting in time and space wasted, unable to find some words that relate to this random spate of brain activity, then successive impressions longing to escape expressive oppression.

There’s nothing like reading a piece that leaves a lingering feeling, something you’d been fleeing but found relief in this peace of mind that someone, somewhere is articulating lived sensations with words you could never seem to find.

I try to right things, when it comes to writing. It stresses me and tests me trying to express freely, until I’m convinced I don’t care and never wanted anything from this anyway. And then a star fades in and my panic starts waning because there’s someone out there to whom it’s relating; or the friend I never thought was reading says it gave them a feeling and somehow meaning was found.

So I think what I’m trying to say is words are worthless but sometimes they work and that’s worth it.



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