I am standing in a room full of people

speaking to them

and they do not understand. 

Not because they don't want to,

because they can't.

I am speaking English

and they are hearing English

and somewhere between my mouth

and their ears

the words stop making sense.

And we are trying, 

them and me,

to understand each other,

to know.

But we have been separated too long.

They have been raised with their words,

and I with mine,

and somewhere in the middle they meet,

but not enough. 

Their stories have no bearing to mine.

Sometimes it is impossible to even know what

the story is about.

Lace dresses, late nights, bright lights;

They all mesh together.

And I cannot understand.

But I try and try and try

and still

I am in the dark.

So I tell them my stories

and they try and try

and cannout understand.

The words don't mean the same thing

the words

fail us.

The same ideas cannot be formed because

we don't have the words.

English is no longer a language,

but a mess of words that don't 

have any real meaning.

No shape, no consistency holding them up.

The words we are raised with

shape us.

They have been raised with their words,

and I with mine,

and therein lies the rift.

Harsh words: racism, hatred, bigotry

bring different minds than soft words:

inequality, dislike, bias

and thus I cannot understand their lives;

the difference between frees and raves,

loose cash,

why you wouldn't fight

and they cannot understand mine:

the difference between internships and jobs,

tight wallets,

why you would fight.

But we try.

Every day we find a 

word.

A single word

that means the same thin

for us both.

And we celebrate,

before trying to find another.

Or we make up words,

trying our best 

to level the field.

And that's all it takes.

A word

and a will.

And somewhere between my mouth and their ears

it all clicks back into place.