I sit for what seems like hours in front of my ancient mirror
staring at the body that carries my soul through stoplights and hallways.
I widen my eyes and twitch my nose.
I'm practicing shocked expressions to turn on
each time someone tells a story of insignificant but personal terror.
At school I wander past the restrooms with grafittied stalls
to a place where even the darkness of my words is grey when compared
With all all the other Great Minds captured and bound in each book.
I stay for what seems like mere minutes next to a window
Pouring in sun that warms the words of ink on each page.
I absorb every image and sound recreated in my mind.
I wonder how I look to everyone else who passes me at my spot.
Do they understand they could be here too?
Seduced by a fantasy realm of giant butterflies
and amphibian acrobats on lily pads?
Or do they recognize only the silence of my favorite place?


Rowen

lindsey, that was beautiful... i loved the endign and the beginning best.

wondermous

very nice

love how it captures a thought... like, it's still thinking, yet it's written down... (yea, i'm strange...)

It's beautiful. Like the speaker is thinking like he does everyday, only their thoughts are special. Did that make sense?
I love these lines the best:

It's so poetic.

anyone else remember when I didn't produce crap all the time?

^Lindsey when did you ever produce crap??

This poem is beautiful by the way. Simply beautiful.
Please keep writing!