To Poet

Thanks to the algorithm and hormones, I cry on the semi-regular now.

Every so often, poetry on youtube will appear in my recommendations and I will ignore work, and ignore emails, and open up tab after tab.

And watching, I listen to people autopsy themselves while they're still alive.

After-action reports of first dates, and lost loves, and that one time i realized my tits were different sized, but they were still awesome, and how it feels to be holding my loved one's empty husk, waiting for the EMT's to arrive while praying that I was wrong and there was still some one to be saved and not turn taking a shower into the hardest thing I'll ever have to do.

Speaking into microphones I'll never have in front of me, to audiences I'll never met, saying word that I know but have never heard.

In that way,
with that voice,

In stories of pain, and love, and loss and hope; mundane as a to-do list and as profund as revealing the answer to the oldest question, Why?

Why me? Why this? Why him, Why not her? Why this story, and not that one, because you've told this one before, and i've heard it better out of them and not you and what makes me so convinced that MY story is worth sharing, even though so many others have said it before.

Said it better.

Said it with far more eloquence, and with better diction that some confused 36-year old kid pretending to be an adult with a functional brain.

And watching, every time, I cry, and I hear the answer.

It's Music.

Synesthesia. Tying multiple senses together so that stimulating one produces responses in another. If you ever see someone talking about hearing in color, than your smelling what I'm touching, and I feel what your saying.

I invented a piece of fictional artwork that I haven't even tried to prototype, to try and show what this sounds like, so that other people can smell this amazing sensation.

And I can't see it, but my mind knows how it should feel, and can hear the dried paint on the smell of the stretched canvas while this spark tries to speak into my eyes sweet enough for my ears to be able to see everyone saying:

"I feel you."

@kelseyhusky No seriously, you're good at this.

"hear the dried paint on the smell of the stretched canvas while this spark tries to speak into my eyes sweet enough for my ears to be able to see" is something I would be goddamn proud to have thought up and put to paper. The cadence there, the way it just rolls out with that light alliterative repetition buoying you along is exquisite.