Poem #23 Untitled

We are nothing but translators

Dictating diction

And elaborating

On vibration.

There is nothing

That I could say to you

That hasn’t been said, or thought, or felt before.

For millennia the earth’s crust

Has hummed

With gyrations of love and joy and movement and the

excruciatingly delicious popping of a new leaf

Begging for

Artistic expression

Whether it’s in fashion or photo or word.

What language do you hear when

Your body aches to create?

When your mind can’t rest?

Is it English?

Is it French?

Is it human?

Is it the pulse of the universe

Running through your cells,

“Tell them!

Show them!”

What is it you’re hearing or feeling

When you

Must thrust

Pen to paper

Or click and snap and flutter the camera?

What inspires you to make THAT dress or use THAT color of paint?

What are you translating?

Whose message are you being forced to tell?

It’s not yours.