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?

Sadly, no.

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?

Rewind.

 

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

wrap.

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

Can slay.

These are important things

Not just to others but to how we portray

Ourselves.

So make your words with care to convey

You, your mind, your soul

However much of yourself you wish to convey

Or a lie

to betray.

 

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

On whatever.

Because why not let my mind live in beautiful livery? 

And wear the truest truths

I see?

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.