music

After almost twenty two years of living I have discovered my main problem with life.
My life is not anything like a movie.
I have no soundtrack forewarning me of things to come.
When I see leaves falling from the sky,
I can't stare up and dance in circles with my arms wide across
in my red peacoat and matching beret
I never get asked if I want to accept this secret mission
nor do i ever go to fancy balls in fancy dresses.
i dont run into hottiesin the hallway
have our books drop
and as we both reach down to get them
we gaze
lost
in each other eyes.
say awkward hellos
and then run off
only to fall in love
about twenty movie minutes later
my foot doesn't pop when I kiss
and i'm not lost royalty
no boy picks on me at school because he secretly wants me
there probably will never be a man with a chain saw in my closet
and i'm too old for prom queen
i realized I dont like to write
because i hate the transfer of ideas from my brain
to existence
i feel as if what I think
is never what i write
I realized this as i watch the day sky
become the night sky
i watched stars appear
and i waited for a moment when all would become clear
in my mind
and the words would flow
but my Epiphany never came
the images still float around in my head
poems never written
some one better call the electric company
my creative outlet is plugged
i do wish my life was like a movie
background music would be nice

See you later...

This "Little House on Memory Lane" is mine too, yes? Surely, I have my own room here, with my small yet practical desk, next to a window overlooking a glass-paned lake...and there, in the corner, is my twin-sized bed with quilted blankets and fluffy down pillow. Its the only furniture I have, except for the desk, of course, and the wood straight back chair accompanying it. The fire-place is my favorite feature...flames leap,dance, casting shadows on sparsely furnished walls. But this is my room, "a room of my own." Crumpled drafts cover the large multi-colored braided rug, evidence that I don't like those ideas. But that's the beauty of this room: I don't have to like them. Safety lies within these walls. Secrets are shared, kept, concealed. But if my words stay here, how will they be heard? Some words I want to share. But won't. That's my explanation for the paper-littered floor. Write. Crumple. Toss...and the process repeats itself in morbid montany. I want to share everything with you. But listening is not your priority...harsh of me to say, isn't it? As familiar as this room is, I hardly know it anymore. I hardly know you. Memories hold little substance, enough to sustain you until the next ones are made...but I see little in the making. The cupboards are empty. The fridge is bare. I am leaving. I am going home...