"Unwritten (And Now, The Rain)"

"Unwritten (And Now, The Rain)"

I try to write what I feel,

But based on what your definition of writing is,

Depends if I succeed.

Let me explain,

There are poems inside of me 

I create

And then negate and neglect,

And they never make it onto a page.

I have hundreds of pages in my journals 

That are empty of written word

Except for a date. Or a name. Or a failed attempt at honesty.

Yet I know exactly what I meant.

Like,

One time

I looked up at the sky 

As it prepared itself for breaking,

And in that split second

Of mysterious clarity, 

With the gray clouds framing my line of sight

And the sun making the blue middle look a soft, soiled green I had never seen,

I wrote a poem

For you. 

And you’ll never find it,

And if you ask me, 

It doesn’t exist.

And in many a way,

I’m not lying.

I can tell you,

My hands have never gripped a pen

That wrote the words I claimed.

For all intent and purposes I am a liar 

You trusted in good faith.

My lips have never uttered the words

And you will never hear me speak them.

And my eyes will never look at you

The way they might have praised the sky that day

And if you think they do

Then you must be a fool, 

Probably. 

And now,

If every time it rains

You see my head bend upward in admiration 

To watch the droplets of rain

And feel them against my skin 

As I add lines of experience 

And dreams to said poem,

It was probably in shame

Of a waste of a good day,

And you don’t know what you’re talking about.