He Is My Difference

[An old piece dedicated to the one who inspired me to write.]

These years have been passing far too quickly for me
I have lost too many memories to my bad memory
And I have met so few people that I can remember beyond a simple "hello"
...but he is so different --
His personality must be why
He had become so personal to me --

He took my words from me,
Though they were mangled from a twisted tongue
And I always felt that my words belonged to only me
He stole them straight from my lips that he had pushed open to speak in the first place
And as he listened to them...
He misunderstood them
Twisted them and used them
Misconstrued them...
And…redefined them
Into something more beautiful than I could have ever imagined...

So now each time he talks to me
I can't hear a damn thing he says --
Because his presence speaks so much louder
His words mean more
His steps leave imprints with me
His actions define inspiration
And when he spits a spoken piece
I can't help but feel that his poetry has become obsolete
The mic in his hand is as pointless as his efforts to raise his voice
Because his words have already echoed to me
New beginnings
New realizations
A new identity deeply rooted
As I look at what they had done to him
The inspiration resonates within me
Vibrating within my thoughts
It jolted through me
And he put the pen in my hand
And forced me to see no intimidation in blank pages
But rather, mere opportunities laid out in front of me
Page by page...

He had become my difference --
The difference there stands between a melody and a song
A voice and its singer
Like a talent that has yet to be discovered
He became the stage -- the foundation for such amazing performances
...and I?
I was just the audience
That if he knew me to be strong
It was only because he held me up
When I was the small, weak girl I had been...
If I wanted to tell the truth - he was my honesty
In my need to be heard
To speak up
Speak loud
And be proud --
He would amplify me
And when I needed the words
...he would inspire me...

And even if I were just reading it
The pieces of his heart unfolded in a notebook of poetry
His misspelled words were merely due to his fumbled fingers
And not mistakes of thought
Reminding me that amidst mistakes
And little details that hint imperfection
The message is not lost
The emotion still preserved
And I sit here still writing
Still so damn inspired...

I had always told him that "words are cheap"
Because actions speak louder than words, right?
But in hearing that cliche,
This time I was the one who was mistaken
Because his actions had merely become the echo of the words he spoke
The stencil I asked him to complete with colors
They were merely the motions of his syllables
His words weren't cheap at all, but rather
They were the subtle truth that he represented to me
The wind that would guide the waves of the ocean
He had moved me with nothing more than a pen in his hand
And a voice to speak it

His words had instead become a gift to me
Priceless -- and so far from "cheap"
They defined the unspoken
The unheard
The invisible
And the intangible
He spoke of the things I couldn't see, but could only feel
He brought me to the realization that reality can also be my solace
Because I can live a dream while I'm still wide awake
And if I ever had the chance to open his eyes, I would
So he can dream
Wide awake
With me...

You see,
He showed me the difference
Between poetry and a passion
The written words and a bold voice
I was merely a puppet of the inspiration he was to me
Only writing of the echos of what he silently spoke to me
And as he stood right there in front of me --
I became different --
Because he is my difference...