written from the heart

I look over to the boy with a pen
He writes feverishly, possessed by the flow of words
Ignoring the world that drizzles around him, protected by a tree
Scribbling his heart onto a page

What is that I ask?
What are you writing?  I know that it is private
I know that he will not want to share
But I am armed with my little book….. He will see

“For whom do you write with such ardent passion?”
Perhaps it is not you who is doing the writing
I have often felt the words writing me
Will you share?

Now the boy looks at me
“Why do you ask me? What if the things I write are for no one?
What if it is only the sound of ink on paper that I long to hear?
The words unintelligible masses, lost hieroglyphs.”

“It would not matter to me,” I say, “
I wish to see your heart.
It’s trapped in the paper you write on
Expressed in the curves of your calligraphy”

“You can’t,” he says, “it’s not for you, it can never be for you,
Or anyone at all. Only that someone I haven’t found
Only that someone that can know what I write without seeing.
The one who knows me, who I know.”

“I’m willing to learn,” I say, “Does that not count?  
Look here, no, I mean in my hand.  What can you see?”
“It’s a book,” he says, “a book, closed and empty.
Black and worn, like it has been used and long forgotten.”

“No, you’re wrong,” I breathe, “it seems we both need to learn.
It’s my soul, I write in the pages
You thought they were empty but in truth they’re bursting,
Like the dampened pages that lie in your lap.”




“Oh,” he mumbles, “does it matter? I don’t care for your book.”
And then he looks again. “What is that?” He asks, “Is that me?
What are colours doing in your book? You said that you only write in it!”
I laugh and sit beside him, putting the tome in his hands

I began to teach,
“Wrong again my friend, I have long thought that you were that someone  
And since then my words have changed to images, capturing every detail.
You are painted in my soul, I can not forget.”

The lesson over, I stand to leave.
“One day,” I whisper, “you will find your someone, that someone,
And you will know. You will see your heart change your world gone,
Not erased but magnified and you will show your someone how they’ve changed you.”

“Goodbye,” he says, “I will remember.” I turn to go.
“But wait!” he calls into the rain, “you wanted to read?”
I turn and nod my head,
“But as you said, I am not that someone.”