Have you ever seen a sunrise
when no one else was around
and tried to describe it to someone
later on?
“Uh, it was purple,
and pink, and blue,
and uhhh…
the clouds were pink
like cotton candy.
Yeah, yeah, that’s it,
it was kinda like
somebody drew a picture
of cotton candy
with watercolors.”
And sometimes
you even puke out
the most bile-choked vomit of a word
ever uttered by a poet
a burst of bark that comes from deep within
but smells like half-digested burritos
instead of the earthy pine fragrance
you were looking for.
You know what you’re getting into
but you say the word anyway.
“Uh, it was… pretty.”
Now imagine if every day were like that.
Picture a world in which
you look into a woman’s eyes
and the sky of your soul
is on fire with colors
you can taste, feel, hear, smell.
Her long hair brushes across her cheek
like the paintbrush of the sun
filling the sky
with warm violets and fiery reds.
The smooth curve of her neck
is the soft horizon
and her eyes are the light
that wakes up the world
with its intensity.
You see this sunrise
unable to describe such a flowing language
of colors and shape and personality
with the feeble words
that stammer out of your trembling pen.
And the sunrise never sees you
so she drifts on by
filling you with warmth while she’s there
but eventually leaving you
back in the frozen black of night.
After seeing so many sunrises
you can’t help scribbling wildly
on every scrap of paper you can find
trying to sketch the pictures
so that the world can see them
and that maybe one day
the sunrise will hear your words
and smile.
But it’s futile, isn’t it?
Maybe.
But what else can I do?
No matter how many scribbles
and bloodshot nights it takes
all that drawing is worth it
for the single sketch
that almost begins to say
how I feel.
Does it do any good?
I guess I’ll never know for sure
until the words are gone
and a single kiss
says it all.