A Poet I am not but sometimes I feel inspired to string some words together and call it a poem. About four years ago I was writing one almost every week. I was looking through that old notebook in Trinidad and decided after all these years that I actually like this one. The subject matter is very transparent:
He knows nothing of the journey in my mind.
Those walks I take with him to places unexplored.
He knows nothing of the scorch his presence leaves on my skin,
Through words alone, his voice telling tales of innocence that enter my ears like a sonnet.
He wants nothing from me though I desire chapters with no summaries.
We walk these different roads as I dream of a point where our paths entwine and it becomes wide enough for two.
He knows nothing.
And I envy that ignorance as it is bereft of these desires and unopened expressions.
Feeling all of this is deafening,
I wish I knew nothing as well.