If I could write a poem that puts others to shame,
than I'd think it was only luck which was to blame.
If I could write a song that gave tears to every note,
I'd gladly sing it giving substance to what I wrote.

Words come soft upon a well thought out refrain,
flowing on to paper putting ruin to confusions reign
but alas sweet words are but phonics to hear,
with duel values that whisper in an ear.

How can mere words explain the plights of me,
When the inner-child clings to all the history.
Like talking to an abstract stubborn brick wall,
How many memories must ram it before it'll finally fall?

Sweet sorrow flows from chaos inside my head,
But only some understand what has been said.
Very few choose to read each and every phrase,
And gladly navigate my mind of labyrinths and maze.

But than again I know I can be rather judgmental,
For even an imperfect being can be temperamental.
Unable to decipher the significance of another has said
Cautionary response to cover what maybe misread.

Like brutish scribbles scattered upon a yellowed page
The meaning becomes variegated with every coming age
Like a skillful potters hand shapes silt argil into ceramic art
An artist sculpts what has been written on the heart.

Though the cesspit grows with words misunderstood
They leave a mark on, whether it is bad or good
Just as soot covered fingers, we blemish all that we touch
Chafing the purity of others with a sinful smutch.

If only smears could clarify the messages of somber lines
Then hollow presumptions could be defined
When people would comprehend exactly what you share
Distressing thoughts would become easier to bare.

And all though through time, words eventually fade
The reflection left behind would not be mislaid.
Humble words are easily forgot,
whilst clarity is possibly never sought.