Real passion is me
walking on West 49th
approaching 8th Avenue in NYC
and seeing a couple embrace
like every Saturday night before;
sharing smooches and emtions,
and me not heeding the warning
of the big orange "talk to the hand"
that lets me know that walking
is currently against the rules.
I see the lights of taxis and cars
and buses, oh my, I don't care.
Hit me, fill me ambition.

Real passion is me
walking the same route
moments later and approaching
the cliched alpha male and posse
and starting my own Fight Club
without them even agreeing
so I can finally know what real pain
feels like because love lost
and remembered is an agony
which I can no longer deal.

Passion is coming home
to sit by my computer and
type this poem with fury and anguish.
Real passion is me
writing this poem under
a random bridge somewhere
with my pencil, notebook, and my words
keeping me warm at night,
keeping the passion alive within.

02/25/2007

Author's Note: On the moment of getting home I write this and feel better, sort of.

Posted on 02/25/2007
Copyright © 2025 Jeffrey Parren