What are the clothes we wear in our minds?
Silk and fine fabrics?
No, there’s no money for such fabulous finds.
Do we wear clothes made out of love?
Knitted and warm that will never unbind?
The world isn’t quite so simple or blind.
Do we wear our intellects?
Use diplomas and knowledge to cover our behinds?
It seems unlikely, after all, what is ‘smart’?
Are there not intellectuals of all different kinds?
What about our actions, our motivations, our faith?
Let’s start where it all began.
You said “hi” and I said “hey” and we became friends.
Were you a fan?
Of course not! We had just met!
You’d only known me for a short span!
So we talked.
And I blabbered on about words like a madman.
Hopefully you listened; at least you nodded like you understood.
But let me explain to you as much as I can.
When you hear the ideas I explain
And the ways I plan
From diction to syntax
The words form around my mind like saran
And dictate what kind of woman
You come to think I am.
And so the words we say
Turn out to be the clothes our minds wear.
Scanty or shielding, colorful or gray
Elaborate, pretentious, bright or boring
Aristotle said our minds are clay,
To be molded and changed
To the style of the day.
This I don’t buy.
I think our words determine how our minds appear and display
But what’s underneath is us
And that is far and away
More intrinsic than what others see
And yet words can sway
Can hurt, yield, fix
These are important things
Not just to others but to how we portray
So make your words with care to convey
You, your mind, your soul
However much of yourself you wish to convey
Or a lie
And how do I choose the right mind clothes for me?
Well, when given the choice
I will always pick the phrase with the least hackney
The smoothest rhythm
And the phrasing that touches most deeply
Because why not let my mind live in beautiful livery?
And wear the truest truths
In other words, my friend,
Why not live in poetry?
And that’s why I write it
Write it often and honestly
And maybe with even a little wit.
Sometimes people see me
There are days I speak without remit
Perhaps because some part of me is hoping
Someone, somewhere will say it ‘twas well writ.
But that’s not why I write poetry
Why I will not quit
I love that it’s not expensive, impractical or pretentious
But most of all I love it
because it fits.