the real
is when you get a paper cut,
when you’re in an argument
and suddenly laugh,
when you run into a
tree branch you hadn’t seen
when you trip and fall
down the stairs and
don’t cry,
when you hate someone so
intensely you promise
to never talk again,
then you hug the next day,
it’s when you never talk again,
it’s when you think about them,
and know you’ve been
touched by someone who you
will never see again
it’s the prick,
the unexpected pain,
the thing that brings you
out of yourself,
that gets your head
out of your own ass,
the feeling of freedom
and acceptance
that this is life.
this is life and I
have feelings about it
being this way.
this is life and I
embrace my thoughts
and let them go or I go wild;
dealer’s choice.
dealer’s choice.
this is life and I
know, in this moment,
what it’s like to live.
2 thoughts on "the real"
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author’s note:
watched stew’s “passing strange.” good. really good. captured so many feelings about art and artists I’ve had but could never express. also reminded me about the whole “every character I write is me” and “everything written has a message.” I think those two laws need a third to round them out. three is a storytelling number. anyway, the main character spends the play looking for “the real.” this poem is my guess at what “the real” is.
Reminds me of the elementary school playground, well done!