if I could commit myself to pages
my persona to story
myself to binding within a book
would you read it?
would you even crack the cover?
if I could paint my mind
on so many empty canvasses
my ideas contained by paints and oils
would you look?
would you even venture a glance?
if I could compel myself into song
my smiles and sighs a chorus
my expressions the melody
would you hear me?
would you press play?
But all I have are these poems
dry words on a page
breathing as I do
longing as I do
and you do not read them
you do not understand
and I have no words left
I am not a story
I am not a picture
I am not a song
I am only myself-
and you do not understand


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