One Wish

The one thing that I truly wish to do
is impossible,
and it hurts so profoundly,
so completely,
to realize this.
My one dream, the one true dream,
is unreachable.
If I could do just one thing
it would be the conversion
of feelings into words.
All I want to do
is share what I feel,
what we feel,
but changing emotions
into words.
Let me write feelings.
Let lines become emotions,
emotions into lines.
You see -
See how I fail?
I can't even write about
writing about
emotions.
Never will the words
be what I long for them to be.
There is no satisfaction.
No pen that complies.
No ink that can be spread
to become what I mean.
I am trapped -
here in this prison,
forever in my mind.
Condemned
to reach forever
for the unobtainable.
My chest - how full!
How it aches!
How the unshed tears
boil within me,
as I simmer in frustration.
Why must I feel everything I see?
Why can't I write all that I feel?
I'd like to close my eyes to the pain
that I see everywhere.
Each time my soul cries
I bleed a little.
Each time my chest quivers
I bleed a little.
All these surface tears
that never find escape,
burn me a little.
All I want is the relief
that turning emotions into words
would bring.
But NO!
It's not allowed!
It's a dream.
Made of mist and longing.
There are no words.
Nothing I ever write
will touch the darkness.
I will never end the screaming
of my imprisoned soul.
There are no keys
to unlock the anguish
and set it free to find
my pen.
I make no sense.
But if you could reach
deep inside my mind,
you'd find what I'm feeling
and wish that I could write.
Without the words
that cannot be,
I cannot be.
I am nothing.
I will be nothing.
Unless I find a new language,
perhaps a piano
or a guitar
could release the music
that is killing me.
eroding my soul
with its intensity.
yes-
perhaps there is an answer -
somewhere within the music
that I hear,
that I feel.
Here I may find the expression,
the words
that I cannot find in my pen.
Or perhaps I'm grasping for hope
when there really is none.
Am I the volcano which will erupt -
destroying itself?
I've screamed in rage to my God.
I've asked for a new pen.
A wiser pen.
A sharper mind.
But to no avail.
I remain an illiterate writer.
Senseless rambling idiot,
with dreams that mock
and curse me.

© Barry Veinotte

Back To Poems 1997

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