Here again, weak again.
We have different vocabulary, you and I. I’d want you to be a good listener, you’d want the same. As we keep clashing our swords, it’s the language that’s confused.
We have different eyes, you and I. Why can’t you see the signs of the universe? How can you look at the crowd and lamely follow what’s been said about living? As we keep forcing each other into different dimensions, the roses rot, doubtful about their existence, let alone beauty.
We have different regrets, you and I. Consumed by assumptions; you can only diagnose scars while my actual hole keeps draining life out of me. Consumed by assumptions, I can only fetch you bandages. As we keep locking up different memories, it’s past that’s confused.
We have different skies, you and I. Alone against the clouds, I miss my strength; so do you. As we keep demanding light, it’s the sun that’s confused.
We ARE different, you and I. And I can’t dictate my words to incompatible ears.
So I’m writing, again.