Before they fade into the clutter
Wherever my half-forgotten dreams
Are located in my brain.
I'm terrified at who I might look like
In the mirror of paper:
But even more scared that no one
Will dig through these memories and thoughts
And learn of me.
I don't want to live on as a blip
on a heartbeat monitor,
dragging my aching feet
over the edge of my hospital bed.
Just living was never enough:
I must taste every day as a renowned critic,
Detailing the sweet, salty, and bitter undertones.
I must swirl every moment around in
my wine glass before drinking slowly.
Will my memories age well,
Or will they rest on my tongue
And melt like European chocolate,
Into happy oblivion, (but oblivion nonetheless)
Leaving only whispers on my own lips
And callouses on my fingertips?
I want to look back
At thousands of pages;
Millions of words
Arranged in neat lines
Across pages of leather journals
Faded with overuse:
The bindings broken from
Being turned over to favorite pages,
The corners turned over to memories once had
And repeatedly enjoyed
By those who need them.
I want to steal people's attention from the grave,
Make them shake with raucous laughter
As they read:
Cause them to shed tears of sympathy
And nod their heads in agreement
As they solemnly speak my words.
All I've ever wanted to do
Is to help others understand
my imperfect insight
and relish the thought of being themselves.
