If my words could be heard, I'de speak of the long nights I sit, awake in my room. Looking dreamily outward of my window, mezmorized by the stinging lights I see.
Memories come flooding back, the good and the bad, the marvolous, majestic, beauitful, and discarseful. The city. The diversity, culutre, the music, style, the attitude, and the personification.
People going there, crowded metros, overflowing corner caffes'.
The strip. Main street. Studio apartments. One room flats.
The suburbs. Fenced Neighborhoods. Mansions. Country clubs.
It's the city.
It calls to me. I long for it.
Driving down main, with nothing but the freash cold air from the window, half asleep. Taking in the takeout, perfume, smog, and cigarete smell. The night life.
Concerts, poetry slams, coffee house open mic night.
The memories flash. New as yesterday. Tattered, yes, and torn, maybe. But never faded.
Dipicting people, places, style, and scenes in my mind.
Like an old projector, lighting up empty space, on an old sheet, on a distorted wall.
The images covers up the blood stains on that once white sheet. The blood covers up the distorted markings on the wall. The marking cover up me. My secrets. My hopes, dreams, fantasies, passions, fears, phobias, loves, loses, hate, gains, my endless list of me.
But I ask the question that brings me back to reality, "What is me? Who am I? Who is this person in the mirror?"
I don't know. Will I ever? Then I am taken aback once renowned again, "What is reality? What is fantasy? Where do you draw the line?"
I don't know. Will I ever?
I don't know the defintion of either or all, but I feel the meanings in the city, driving down main, with nothing but the freash, cold air from the
window, half asleep. Taking in the takeout, perfume, smog, and cigarete
smell. The night life. In the one place I feel alive.
Sitting next to you.
distorted memories
