The Only Poem That (Almost) Knows You

What will it be this time?
A story?
A poem?
A song?

Not right, not write, not right. 
A single word? 
A feeling?
A feeling.
One that has no words.
One that is better left alone
In the heart
In the body
For the soul. 

So there is a constant longing,
Isn’t there?
To write of things that can never be written
Knowing that to do so would only limit them 

Like taking a picture
Of the sky
So you can carry an illusion of the moon
In your pocket 

It’s so much more than what can be shown
Than what can be said
And yet I keep writing
Of what?
The idea of unwritable things 
But why?
So that we can all remember 
That we are so much more 
And so much bigger 
Than the words that pour out of us 

That we are a whole universe 
Who could spend our whole lives 
Writing stories about our planets
Our stars and moons and suns
Our explosions and our black holes
And we would never reach our infinity

Comforting… or is it?

I suppose it could be nice to meet all of our aliens… 
They might be the only ones who really understand 

All those unwritable things that are 
Bursting 
And Roaring
And Sleeping
And Spinning 
Inside of us 

They might be the only ones who really understand 
Who we are.