Talent

You throw around
numbers, bash me with graphs,
lays a whole force field of gravity,
weighing heavy with understatements
of measured difficulty.
Traded and sold by the pound for it's usefulness,

calculations
are unlike that of whimsical words.

Without need

words

just float and are there
along side the coffee table,

along side the cat.
They sit like such frats showing off
for no one
but me.

Rows of buttons,
technology scattered and framed as miracles,
but all I see is geometry
trying to reason with mass
and find it's way into an unfit place.

It doesn't make me shiny and outstanding for my diction
and uncanny punctuation.
It makes you competent on reverse sides of the brain,
therefore a feebly skilled artist's hand
but when it comes to sketching numbers
no better man could be found.

Don't ask me why I can paint the sky
without a thread or drop of color at hand.
I have whispers and pens

echoing my footsteps,
assuring you that my emotions are not too tight.

I don't ask you why you can reveal to me
the planetary wonders
in a sea of graphs refining themselves
and tuning distance
while you sleep.
I just know that is the gift for you,
and this is the gift for me.