Sounds Like This Music

I speak poetry, but cannot decode it For others; their brows wrinkle as they exert A prodigious effort to understand; And perhaps all just for me. Why was I born to understand a language That eludes others, and that most have no interest in? Why does poetry speak to my bones and to my pulse, My innermost self, like no spoken words can? If I am an alien, amongst all the other races of the world, So be it. I would rather be deaf to all of life And understand dying best, if it sounds like this music. If I could be reborn as a poem, That would be the true heaven: Where words can wound, or lift one more Than any silence.