Tag: selfishness

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tragedy

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tragedy Morning traffic dictated a lethargic pace. I tailgated the car in front of me as if burning grill marks on his bumper would increase the speed of moving, could decrease my anxiety— would I make it to work on time? I veered onto the exit ramp at the first opportunity, crossing a bit of the solid white, zipping around the line stopped on the highway, the other 9-5ers blinking at their windshields, sleepwalkers guzzling coffee and eating granola bars. The ramp was clear, a straight shot of open road to fly without impasse in the freedom of ignoring speed suggestions. I noticed something to my right before I hit the intersection: a dead deer, frozen and whole like a stuffed replica. I looked away to my left. Three black trash bags lined the shoulder.Sometimes routine can blind us from what’s happening around us, good or bad. Don’t forget to open your eyes. Write a poem about it if you can.

Happy Thursday!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Are You Ready?

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Are You Ready? She asked the question in the earnestness of choice, offering me an out despite the unspoken plea traced in the words hiding behind the weight of decision, my decision to box up my heart --my needs, my fears, my selfishness— and store it on a shelf, collecting dust and waiting. She explained: you can’t expect anything back, must act without being asked, that’s what it takes, effort, your effort. I nodded, a yes flying from my lips in auto response like an out-of-office email, true and direct, but impersonal, shallow. She glared into my irises like a lie detector assessing genuine intention. But she didn’t say anything. Did she not see the waver in my thought which screamed in every blink breaking our locked eye contact? She didn’t say anything, reiterating her faith in me, her compassion to see beyond my flaws, the reason why my mother is the most selfless person I know. I reach down my throat and pluck out my feelings. This isn’t about me, I think, but if there’s one reward to this choice it’s becoming more like my mother, my selfish caveat tainting her altruistic purity.

This one’s a bit different. But I wouldn’t be a poet if I didn’t play, right? Thanks for stopping by and as always, have a happy Wednesday!

–Leanne Rebecca