Again I’m trying to explain how all talk is slippery.

See, I might want to convey one thing—frustration, say—
but all that gets conveyed is some other thing—rage—my hand
coming fast, erratic, menacing.

Who can say how a thing in words turns and flowers like that?
It happens.

Now say I want to say to you happiness.

No motive. Nothing behind it.
Just the awareness of a valve suddenly opened and—
happiness!

It’s in the lungs, the bones.
But somehow all you hear is I don’t need you.

We’re in this room, and you’re not hearing
how I’m still trying to say this thing to you.

I’ll say it again. Here. Happiness.

Elisabeth Frost

(Source: poems.com)