Mirrors

It's not about you, cuz I am the fool building castles in the sand.
If I am crazy, just don't care, it doesn't mean I don't want you near...Just take me as I am...So please....Have faith.

--Celine Dion, Faith



What if the girl that I see in the mirror
Isn’t who I want staring back at me?
What if that girl is starting to fear her
Wildest dreams may be sheer fantasy?
What if my talent has been overrated?
What if I simply don’t have what it takes?
What if my promise has already faded?
How can I afford to lose at these stakes?
What if there’s nothing redeeming,
Getting my hopes up and dreaming?
What if no one hears me screaming?
Can’t I just be?

Can’t I just be?

(http://musicalgirlie.wordpress.com/2010/06/23/cant-i-just-be/)



hush the whisperings
focus the eyes
release the mind
let it fly.

drown in the words
float in their wake
feel the surges
hear the quake...

to be a member of an audience
is such a privilege:
to be privy to the exposed soul.

to be an audience...

is such a burden.

to long to own the stage,
to wish to replicate the performance
to yearn to hold such power
at your own fingertips.

but in my own open palms
hovering above
my outstretched finger tips

is emptiness.

the emptiness holds so much.

it tells of dreams
never realized.
hopes
all in vain.
desires
that are pipe dreams
yearning
that is real.

the small body
propelled by unseen force
into desperate
awkward angles
at center stage
is exposed by bright lights
of scrutiny.

A voice that tries
Rather than is
Reveals the amateur
Unable to construct a facade.

the words
do not pour forth
soar
fly
or rain upon the masses...
they drop
as
a
single
coin
pulled by gravity straight to the earth
and spinning mindlessly in circles
before settling
on a dusty floor
under a threadbare chair
in the back corner
of an old theatre.

the images
of standing tall
arms outstretched
face flooded
with emotion
spilling into the air
seem as juvenile
as infant dreams.
ignorant.
undeveloped.
an old dream
aged
cracked
worn and softened
hiding behind a veil
of cobwebs and cracked glass.

i see the girl
wanting to touch
to feel
to experience
to be freed of the constraining bands of civility
failing
to make the connection
failing to rise

words of power
of unadultered being
become
a mockery

it would be better to constrain
refrain
abstain
and let the words exist
in unmarred form
as words on a page waiting
for the next
to bring them to life
to bring them to the people
where they can be felt
and experienced

Looking up to the stage,
to the poet dancing
her words across the time and space,
feeling
resonates in the air
and in the core of every being.
permeated by their intensity
and by her Voice
caressing each word
warming every syllable
my thoughts
are brought
to empty hands.

i clasp them,
only to pull apart once more,
this time
shoving the culprit hands
beneath my legs
to hide the vacant palms
to punish them
for ever believing
and then for hoping
and to deny them the opportunity
to fail
by
accepting
the cruel
ugly
choice of fate
the reality-

to be alone

to be an audience

sitting and watching

as words
spark
meandering
threading their way
among the faces and thoughts
weaving their own pattern
creating their own beauty.


i watch.




The power of words is rivaled only by the dignified authority of their spartan absence.