Maybe it’s all fiction

I believe a person can read a story and have various interpretations, I think a person can read this and assume endless assumptions. Maybe this is true, or maybe it’s a work of fiction. I don’t really know what one can call this, but I think I’d like to call it a short story/poem.

We walked so many roads, but different ways.

We talked, but I think I was the only one listening.

We ran a race, but I think I was the only one running.

We timed ourselves, but I think I was the only one looking at the watch.

We fought, but I think I was the only one really fighting.

I think when people walk into lives; they walk in to change them.

 You called yourself one chapter, but I called you a whole book.

We are so different, and yet we are so alike.

Our lives, to me is a book,

But to you it’s a short story.

Maybe our life is a bunch of short stories stitched together to form a fictional novel.

We don’t remember what happened, what we remember is what happened. – John Green

We have different interpretations of our story,

I have 8 years, and you have 5.

We are fighting for a past we don’t even remember.

We are killing for a future we don’t even have,

Or maybe I’m killing for a future I wish we had.

Maybe the way I look at us is all a smoke screen,

Maybe the way I see us is all a lie,

Maybe my memories are a matter of fiction,

Of hideous hope or maybe even want.

Maybe the stories I formed in my mind were writer’s fiction,

I am a story teller so maybe I made it all up.

There was never an ‘us’

There was just a ‘me’

And there was just a ‘you’.

Maybe I was unconsciously looking for something like love

And you were the only one standing in front of me.

Maybe I picked you because you were easy,

And I didn’t know the pain of hurt.

Or maybe I picked you as my muse

Because I wanted something different;

Maybe just maybe I wanted to write a story,

Maybe you were always just research.

I don’t know how or where or when you walked in,

My head says 8 years

Or maybe it’s all fiction. 

That one coffee shop: The Poem

Poems have always been my favorite, you read them and in those few lines you hear a story, most of the time one that consumes you. Poetry has always been my best friend, when I don’t write prose, I write poetry.

This, I wrote in exactly 15 minutes, as controversial as it may seem, don’t dig deep into the ‘who is she talking about’ try and read between the lines, try and understand.

That one coffee shop.

The smell of coffee, the warmth of its heat, the dark, dark brown reminded me of him.

His dark brown eyes, his crooked smile, his childish voice contradicting mine.

His memories ran through the boxes of my mind.

The smell of consumed me once more,

The heat on my lips, the warmth in my eyes,

The joy of its bitterness took me by surprise.

And finally, oh finally! He got lost in the boxes of my mind. 

They felt something

Every day you wake up with a new found hope a smile, a laugh even. You wake up and think ‘Oh! Maybe today could be a better day.’ You tell yourself the sun is shining brighter, you close your eyes and feel its heat, the day seems to hold a lot of promise or so you think. You walk out of the house, shining bright, all dolled up with those heart shaped shades, and as you see your reflection you tell yourself you’re beautiful, you promise yourself you’re beautiful knowing deep down you’re nothing close to that. All your life you were told that beauty was defined by the clothes you wear; that the only way to take some ones breathe away was to be a size zero, because a 12 would never do. You knew deep down that you would never be ‘their’ beautiful, you would never look pretty, you would never look like a dream, mostly because you weren’t what they wanted you to be, you were different.

You read a book; ‘Eleanor & Park’ the friends you recommended it to didn’t get why you cried or why you thought the book was amazing. This is why you loved it so much.

- 

        She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

You’re life wasn’t even close to Eleanor, but you felt her, you sort of understood her. They didn’t, no one ever does. As you sit on your laptop writing you realize why it made you cry, you realised that even though your life was nothing like Eleanor’s, you felt what she felt, you felt like art.

As you woke up this morning, you told yourself you are beautiful, not because you felt like it, but because you are, and even though they think you’re not, even though they say you’re not, you are.

You were born beautiful, you were born with a promise, you were born to an amazing world. And most days end badly, but that promise pushes you, only because you were born to be more than beautiful, you were born to make them feel something.

And

They felt something.