I learn who people are by how they read my poetry,

The people who reach into emotionless words and drag the sounds out into a tragic tale

They inject despair into the words and read as if they are sobbing

I know people who read this way, even if I was talking about a spoonful of peanut butter.

 

I write from the heart and I write from my mind

I pay no attention to the words until they are all out on the page and in my head there is emotion.

I can’t read it later, not out loud, and give it the same feeling it had when it went on the page.

I know people who give the same feeling in my ears as started in my head and it amazes me every time.

How perceptive must someone be to know what it felt like to write it?

How do they know how to speak it to sound the same as the voice in my mind

To keep the lilt and the idea that poured out onto the page?

 

Most people read it with their own thoughts in mind,

A preconceived notion given by a misleading title that gave too much away.

Their own emotions crawl into the spaces between letters and hide there

And you can hear it when they recite:

What exactly they think these words were meant to mean.

 

I don’t think I know anyone like myself,

Who cannot read out loud with a tone

Who fall flat when they articulate

And sprint through the words so as to escape the paper unscathed,

Untouched by the letters that scream at you to listen and feel.

 

I learn about who people are by the way they read my poetry.

You can learn about yourself by listening too.

 

How did you read it?