You don’t know a beautiful place to describe,
you would have made a better poet.
The only place you’ve ever been,
or ever sure you’ve ever been,
isn’t made up of bricks and flowers,
or bridges and pillars.
The only place you’re ever sure you’ve ever been
is made up of words that don’t exist.
So you’re never going to make a good poet,
unless of course you’re willing to disparage this place
and liken it to bridges and flowers.
Then again you might mention the things
which happens in it.
The bonds that are made in it—
but even that process needs words.
The things that are stored in it, perhaps—that memories
fit perfectly even if you haven’t made them yet.
You don’t know a beautiful place to describe,
the only place you’ve been, or ever sure you’ve been,
isn’t beautiful, or ugly, or black or white, or good or evil,
(stereotypes are like spandex—they fit if you want them)
You won’t make for a better poet,
there are no words for the wonders inside you.
But it’s okay,
some beauties are not meant to be captured.
