Languages

I know six languages, The one I write in The one I speak in, My mother’s words, My father's verse, And those of my brothers. My mother speaks quickly In baking terms and 80’s slang She speaks in sewing materials, Starbucks orders, And references to Bon Jovi. My father speaks with nature, I just happen to hear him. He converses with trees, And pebbles worn smooth by time. His language is filled with bar chords, Childhood lullabies, And culinary jargon. The words he shapes are crafted by knowledge that I won’t admit I see. Two years younger than me is an entirely different language, Though one I understand. Covered feelings form a language I used to know quite well Spoken in anger Or begrudging hope He lives in a pixelated world With his eyes glued to a screen He speaks in accordance to what is thought, Usually not his thoughts guiding his actions Strict participant in social norm, Too much is said about what he hasn’t done and not enough about what he has The youngest speaks in an entirely Too innocent language One I have come to detest For the unwelcome flashbacks it brings I don’t speak his language Doubt I ever will again. His quick words are full of legos, Cartoons, And Kung Fu Panda. His actions are a reminder of a song I have forgotten. I speak in limericks, Dramatic monologues, And Iambic Pentameter. My words are full of colors and grasped by few For they float by much too quickly Full of mentions of J. K. Rowling And pop culture. My wonder is stuck In the impossible, For I have yet to believe it is so. I speak in song lyrics and quotes. My words are full of grudging resilience, Quick wit, And sarcasm. It does not matter what language we speak, Or what percent Irish we think we are, We are alike on what matters, Like our love for literature, Our patriotism of Gryffindor, And our intrest in politics. The languages we speak tie us together, They are what make us unique.