I do not have the words or mind to make myself clear most of the time. I spend time rambling wandering for words trying to repeat what I think in shades of green, yellow, and blue. I cannot speak yet, but still demand I am heard. The words are not there, but the elements of sound are. I just admire the written language. Words carry meaning back and forth as a carrier pigeon bringing messages at times of war. Writing is an art. Art is not peace but war.
Some missives are easy to follow, codes built especially for me. I welcome it as a direct order at my level of understanding. Some words are silent. Silent like the eyes looking back at me, wanting to say something, but cannot. I see the words in the face but I do not see the message, it is not at my level of understanding. I want my pride to die in a sensual manner that would bring my eyes to words, and make my message whole. I hope they will catch my meaning at my level of understanding, and make it theirs’s. Yet, the dispatches remain unclear. I have enraged feelings met with silence, flowered in shades of red, yellow, and blue. It is too prideful to be dependent on words that are there for exposure of the insecurity of wanting to be desired by another human being.
No matter what enigma I try to relate, the eye contact that is forever for the taking. I am not fathoming; our codes are at different levels of understanding.
Also, I’m trying so hard to get it, but I am not very perceptive. Regretfully I speak silently, because I do not have the understanding.