My 500th poem, on my 9 year anniversary of writing. Perception of time.

It seems like nothing can humble you
faster than time. It affects everyone,
regardless of race, gender, or age.
And yet, it somehow feels personal
when bad things happen
depending on what stage of life we're in.
But what if it isn't time that changes us.
What if it's our perception of time
that changes us? When we're young,
time seems to move so slow.
But the older you get, all time sees to do
is go, go, go. What if we never lose
or run out of time.
What if it's the stress of living that's committing the crime of breaking us down.

it all started with a single hi
three days, three nights
of unstoppable phone conversations
life lessons from three decades
of each other's existence
then, one midnight
you drive past the city lights
to meet me on the other side..

The glamour,
the lights and flashes,
the gold and the silver,
I call it home.

Crowds filling the seats,
then the shushing,
then the quiet,
and it starts.

They watch and follow,
little prying eyes,
where your feet goes,
where your fingers glide.

After all,
I'm a performer,
and this is the stage
that I call home.

But who stays
after the velvet curtain call.
When the show is done,
who remembers?

And what is remembered?
Aside from the weary bones,
broken ribs,
and flailing arms.

Who stays?
To sit on the red seats,
in the dark,
to watch a wretched performer?

I only exist
In the words that I write.
I gleefully skip from line to line,
Basking in the glory
Of momentary inspiration.
I slide carefully from key to key,
Drinking in the soft taps of the keyboard,
Manifesting my way
Into the hearts of all people everywhere.
I crave a stage, a crowd, a platform,
A place to immortalize myself,
To form an identity clean of sin,
To raise a new, sanitized, beating heart
From the ashes to the spotlight.
I wish for my name
To sweep the world off its feet,
To be shouted, or whispered,
Or chanted, or cheered.
I desperately want to be someone,
To be known, and loved,
And adapted to the needs of the watcher.
I dream of being consumed, and approved,
And loved, and needed,
So incredibly needed
That I might just allow myself
To exist either way.