My language

I couldn't hear the rain before I turned the computer off, maybe
it's a sign, I was already shaking my hand
in fear before I started writing
this, and as I wrote
the first few words of the first sentence I started
to feel cheesy like a dinosaur, this language
feels so big and clunky and awkward
after learning another one, I wonder
if it's raining
on the army of Chinese babes halfway across the world,
connected via the internet and OkCupid,
I wonder how much I'll edit this, I wrote in pencil
because I don't like pens anymore,
ink washing away in the rain, lead fading with time, there is nothing
permanent to record your thoughts,
I wish I could carve them into the universe
and let my inspiration flow freely,
sucking up and absorbing the debris,
the split-second—sometimes second decisions
that go into writing surprise even me and my pencil and those
millions upon millions of Chinese babes halfway across the world,
would it surprise them that I was writing about them,
would it surprise them that I know less about my own
language than they do,
that I know less about myself,
that I don't know when to stop and am too
chicken to go,
that I still can't help falling into nostalgia whirlpools
and feel the pain of having to learn my language.