When I read the words of those,
whose syllables softly sooth the soul,
I sigh a soft sweet symphony
to allow for there thoughts to flow through me.
There are far too many names, Keats and Byron, cummings, Shakespeare, to name a few
There brilliance is only juxtaposed
my incompetence with this poetic prose.
I wish to write an epic now, like Milton or homer,
but my mind won’t allow
such things to cascade out of my fingers,
and lyrical mastery to congest this page.
Words are to me a vessel, to deliver
which ever emotion we wish to convey,
But the words that I use are simply a puzzle
which I constantly struggle to break.
There were masters once, there probably still are,
who have found a formula
To evoke the whimsical woes of
man and set free the mind to be inspired by words.
If you’re reading this I apologise,
I have wasted your time being dull and prosaic,
And talking about what I’ll never quite be,
I can’t even describe where I am right now,
Through the barrier’s that were stated by
Sapir- Whorf and for this I am sorry.
I hope with a prayer that my words will one day,
evoke just one emotional response,
If such an occurrence were to occur,
I would be content with my place in the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.