I went to
my cafe with my
notebook and favorite
pen.
As usual, the cafe was filled with just the
right amount of people. Some chairs were occupied and some
muffins were being enjoyed but it still felt empty.
Like it was
mine.
So I sat down and
pondered.
I wanted to write a poem that you would understand.
My pen sat
motionless. And the blank pages just stared back.
Because I wasn't sure what to write. Sometimes I am. Sometimes things just
come to me. And I can write and write and write. Each word perfect for its purpose. Each sentence a
supernal imitation of my thoughts.
But sometimes I
can't. Most of the times I can't. And this time was
no different than most.
I thought of what I wanted to say. There were so many things. So many
different things that I wanted to say.
And there were so many different ways of
formulating them.
Of ordering them
Of making them flow
and rhyme
And so many ways of framing them on the page.
And I didn't know what to do. Or where to start.
And to top it
off, you don't
read poems. You don't
like poems. You don't
understand poems.
I wanted to write a poem that you would understand.
But then I
came to the conclusion that you wouldn't understand any poem that I wrote, be it a
villanelle written in
French or a
haiku written in
German, you wouldn't
get it. And you wouldn't bother reading it (properly). And you certainly wouldn't understand it.
Even if written in simple
English.
Simple,
plain,
boring,
adjective-
less English.
You would
refuse. Every
fiber in your
being would refuse.
And so I
gave up on the idea.
And decided to go home and
cook you dinner instead.
Because you understand
food. And I am
learning to understand
you.