The swanky coffeehouse speaks to me, it is a place of rest that has caught my soul free. No one here knows me, so they merely exteriorly see. The music is that of souls bleeding, where uncertainty presents feeding. Tiled tables and low voices, dumfounded and disturbed by our choices. They watch me write, and I allow my pen to take flight. There is an enjoyment in being surrounded, by those who don’t know me; dumfounded. Then it all comes to me as I see this man set himself free. I must make choices based minimally on voices. I must move in some direction, allow myself to hold that affection. My heart lies heavily upon this tiled table. I am sick of turning reality into a forsaken fable. I look around this place and I see so many faces set apart by their experience; their places. I feel as though I need to cry to let all of my past just die. I need to get past what I thought would last. When I started to lose time I closed my eyes; my mind and heart went blind. As I look out the window I see people go they travel as though life is light as though they have let go of all fright. I would never listen even when the pain would glisten. I made decisions, set up my own collisions. They all say the same thing, let it all be gone, go, be a new king. Conquer all the past, move past, let go of that which chooses not to last. Whoever thought of ideal, thought they had the right to steal. To take reality and bear falsality. I stole it all. Made those possibilities fall. Made the pain go away. Set myself and my life astray. This place, allows me to trace. To draw the lines, in my remembrance of time. Will I go back and speak, to that which has made me meek? Will I try to travel down the road barefooted, on gravel? Will I go back to that which will crack? Yet I ask these questions, I know not to mention. I know the reply. I won’t allow myself to sigh. No more will I cry upon that which had no choice but to die. Perhaps the spirit of the paschal mystery will guide me in getting past my history. I don’t think that so. I know without doubt I will grow. I know life isn’t meant to be like this no more dwelling on that which I miss. The truth is that I don’ miss. The truth is that I don’t miss that silence, that evil bliss. The mean voice, my mistaken choice. You see the singer on stage speaks to me, his songs start to let my pain go free. I guess we are all alone in life, sharing pain and strife brings us together, you and I, letting the pain go to let it die. The coffee house speaks to me and my soul, my soul begins its flight free.Birth sign: Cancer
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by F.I..