Tears of frustration taste different

I do not know who to be upset with
You, or me?

To even ask this question begs the answer
that I already know.
As do you.
We all do.
The questions to which carry inherent truths within them.
Answers so small
that we can pretend we don't see them.

Why am I so frustrated?
Why am I so puzzled?
Why am I so lost?
What is it that you want from me?

I can write my feelings.
speak my thoughts.
Follow. Turn left. Right.
Stop.

Do you want me to feel?
I can do that.
I can feel.
So.
Much.
The tide can come up and never leave.
Swallow me, until I am salt and darkness.

Do you want me to listen?
I can do that.
With soothing comfort of warm hands and big eyes.
I hear the sweet strings of your mind,
The wood warmth of your heart.

Do you want me to see?
I can do that.
I'll let my eyes linger on every subtle curve
and imperfection.
Like an old photograph.

Why is it, then that I cannot do
The easiest of all?
I can show you what is in my heart.
But I cannot draw it.

If a picture is worth one thousand words,
Then you've never felt the rich, poignant, warm flow of poetry
That washes over you
like a currant stream.
The water is thick and
sweet and
bitter
and dark.
Like communion wine left out too long.

Is it me?

Do my own frustrations with a desire for completeness
Send me to this place?
Isn't my story worthy of my own medium?
Or do I just not have the means to let you in?

Without words, I feel powerless.

Is it you?

Maybe it's both.
But I'm not the teacher.