listen

I don't expect a reaction,
sympathy,
empathy;
a solution.

I don't need your love,
care,
devotion;
or shoulder, even.

I just need your ear.

Perhaps only for a few minutes.

While we're sitting at the bar,
waiting for the bus,
riding in a cab,
or even standing in a long line.

listen.

You may not change my life,
heart,
soul,
or even my mood.

But you will have changed the course of one day.

ONE day          of          MY life.

If only you could understand the significance of just one day.

Cities have been leveled. Towers have fallen. Ships have been sunk.

And though I may not be a Hiroshima, a 9/11, a Pearl Harbor.... I matter.

You don't have to tell stories about me to your grandchildren,
follow me,
attend my funeral;
or remember me, for that matter.

You just need to take a couple of minutes out of your day...
while you're sitting at the bar,
waiting for a bus,
riding in a cab,
or simply standing in a r e a l l y   l  o  n  g   line...

whether you be a stranger,
friend,
lover;
or mother.

listen.

"We all hide behind our wit," she said.

(She had wanted to be Jane Austen, but wound up being Sylvia Plath instead.)

She would never again trust another word. For who would trust a word? More so, a word without action to make sincere its cry? A fool; and she was not a fool.

Her rib-cage, cynical, read: "Love is no longer in vogue, better left to the history books and the firing squads." It wrapped its way around her lungs, a permanent reminder never to hold her breath for anyone. Suffocation was inevitable in this day and age.

Never let down your guard. Never let down your guard.

Steady. Repetition. Her anthem.

...

She found his existence maddening. He made her skin crawl. Made her blood rush. He made her a fool. He had taught her that falling in love and falling were more alike than different. He had shown her that broken hearts were far more painful than broken bones.

She was a pond, and he was a willow. He would create ripples...
She would make waves.

Drowning was more of a promise than a potential. Not a matter of if, but of when.

...

These days, she drowned in seas of laughter.

Wit had become her constant companion. A guide to survival. She had survived him. Had surpassed him, even.

Two steps ahead- always looking back.

She would be the court jester; he, merely, the material for the next good joke.

I long to live a life
worthy of war stories and old western movies.

I hope to have a home
filled with forgotten treasures and faded maps.

I aim to attain an anthology
collect the earth and capture the stars.

I dare to dream of danger
mountains, snow-capped, and moss-covered falls.

I seek to survive a stagnation
poetic poison and perpetual "sub-par."

I please to pursue a perfection
inevitable failure, imperfection- an art.