Truth is that I'm writing about a stranger. Never seen her, nope, I never met her. Perhaps I should just keep these writings to myself, cuz' I sound like a fool asking for world's help. Alone at home, nobody can hear these slient cries, had to surround myself with music and cover up with lies. Yeah I'm okay, don't worry, I'm fine. I'm lost in life. Seems everytime I ignore it, the worse it gets. I just can't sleep it off or let time cure it, why write about someone who doesn't exist? Then it hit me, I must be writing for a reason, if so, then what was my inspiration. It was her all along, I didn't need to know if she was real or not. As long as I keep writing, she exist in my mind, the dream alive with all my thoughts written down in a piece of paper. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here writing about her. Would I meet her? Who knows, but I probably won't. If I was given the chance to see her in person, most likely I won't. Because I'm better off not knowing who I'm writing about.
TheAtmosphericist 18-21, M 2 Answers 1 Apr 4, 2012
wrong venue, plagiarist. slam poetry nights exist in every "city" across the states, usually thursdays. btw, wrote this in '95.