I once met a girl
Not quite unlike myself.
The urge to talk came
When our eyes met.
One word led to the next,
The conversation came easily.
Topics jumped from love to life
From death to mundane things.
Her enthusiasm was greatest
When it came to poetry.
"I wrote my first real word
During one of the darkest times
Of my life, a period of confusion,
Anger and self pity.
I didn't know how to say it,
I didn't know how to release my anguish,
I didn't know anything,
Except those words.
I often thought to myself
How much burden those words must carry.
Oh, I wish I could anesthetize them,
But they would never allow it.
They want to embody all the emotions possible
Like a balloon about to burst.
So in accordance with their wish
It is my duty to inject them with all that I feel
For it is their heart beat
And I must keep them alive."
She was modest about her skills,
Saying she still has more to learn,
About structures, forms, prosody.
We spoke of the past great sensitive anesthetizers
And she revealed to me her admiration,
"Oh, if I could convey the thunder
And lightning's real intent,
If I could write love like Shakespeare,
If I could write out the picture of our era like Eliot,
If I could write of humanity like Frost,
If I could be metaphysically conceited like Donne,
If I could write the beauty of nature like Wordsworth,
If I could write something as grand as Milton's paradise,
If I could write my mark like these
Extraordinary word manipulators and others more,
I would be... free."
She was breathless when she stopped her passionate admiration.
She then closed her eyes and looked up into her mind's own sky,
And smiled quirkily and unpretentiously,
But yet, there was something she was holding back,
Something she was unable to express.
I can understand her love for poetry,
But why is something I'll never get.
Before she left, she gave me a simple answer,
And it all became clear,
"These words saved my life."
