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I went to my cafe with my notebook and favorite pen.
As usual, the cafe was filled with just the right amount of people. Some chairs were occupied and some muffins were being enjoyed but it still felt empty.
Like it was mine.
So I sat down and pondered.
I wanted to write a poem that you would understand.
My pen sat motionless. And the blank pages just stared back.
Because I wasn't sure what to write. Sometimes I am. Sometimes things just come to me. And I can write and write and write. Each word perfect for its purpose. Each sentence a supernal imitation of my thoughts.
But sometimes I can't. Most of the times I can't. And this time was no different than most.
I thought of what I wanted to say. There were so many things. So many different things that I wanted to say.
And there were so many different ways of formulating them.

Of ordering them

Of making them flow

and rhyme

And so many ways of framing them on the page.

And I didn't know what to do. Or where to start.
And to top it off, you don't read poems. You don't like poems. You don't understand poems.
I wanted to write a poem that you would understand.
But then I came to the conclusion that you wouldn't understand any poem that I wrote, be it a villanelle written in French or a haiku written in German, you wouldn't get it. And you wouldn't bother reading it (properly). And you certainly wouldn't understand it.
Even if written in simple English. Simple, plain, boring, adjective-less English.
You would refuse. Every fiber in your being would refuse.
And so I gave up on the idea.
And decided to go home and cook you dinner instead.
Because you understand food. And I am learning to understand you.