This poem was number 9 in my project to write 52 poems:
My language,
can not be explained through yours.
It has been constructed by my life,
my vocabulary has been built up by years
of reading, and listening, and watching
As my passport fills with stamps
each new location fills
my ears with a lack of understanding,
my mouth with a need for communication,
my eyes with the beauty, of overwhelming newness
of
physically being where I am, every second I am alive.
My language
is a gathering
of the people I have meet
of all the sounds those around me have created
and the
gestures that punctuated them.
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