Languages

Danish makes me feel clumsy. The words fall from my lips slowly, unnatural pauses causing the meaning to lose value.
Arabic is foreign on my tongue. I try to give the words the poetry they deserve, they demand. But my words are unspectacular, my sentences childish, mediocre. The work of an amateur. My failure frustrates me. I want to scream at my own incometence.
French is lost to me. The werbs and the nouns and the adjectives. They jumble together in my mind, falling short in my throat, never passing through my lips. I understand but can not untangle the coplexities of the language.
Russian calls to me like nothing else, with a whispered promise of darker words, deeper sentences, a better description of pain and longing and cold nights alone.
English flows from my lips with beautiful simlicty. My voice is confident, as I make my point with ease and elegance. I twist the words, own them, filling them with rhythm and inflection, making them mine.
Yet even then I cannot translate the language of my mind. Thoughts get lost. Ideas I cannot bring back. They fall into unexplored recesses of my mind. Hidden in the corners of my brain I destroy in search of a few moments of numb stupor.
I start something but the is no end, no finish line. No release.