But I Can't

If I could sing,

I’d purr the blues,

secreting bleak tremors

of light deep chords,

for the weary

If I could dance,

I’d pulsate jazz,

mimicry of rapid 

convulsions

manifesting wit,

for the bashful

If I could write,

I’d pen poetry,

ink slathering pages

with fermented stories,

for the innocent

If I could speak,

I’d roar the hypocrisy

of lucid decrees

laminated in strength,

for the weak

If I could hear,

I’d record the voices

fleeing with the wind,

blowing effortlessly

in confidence,

for the insecure

If I could love,

I’d caress the wounds

on contused epidermis

and bruised spirits,

for the tormented

If I could feel,

I’d run across the fields

where the earth meets 

water, sun, and air,

and pleat the four together,

for the numb,

for I am one of them

Reviews

[Tai Ryens]

I love the paradox (or is it oxymoron? or am I being mediocre?) set up between the title and the poem; simply put, clever. I seem to have come to admire your second to last stanza, a strange fragment of this poem that mumbles for my soul to inch closer . . . Great job.

[demureminds]

Haha thanks