As I make my way home, his words repeat.

¨My young naive friend, if you weren’t depressed,
you’d have nothing to write about at all.¨
Those words, so insulting, and yet I found
comfort in knowing he wouldn’t be fooled.
Knowing I couldn’t hide behind my fears,
nor could I pretend that I was hurting.
This drunken old man, knew I was a fake.

Though he wasn’t there, I could feel his voice
molesting and violating my heart.

¨You have this mental barrier my boy,
because never have you felt a real pain.
You think you have, because you’ve been betrayed,
but haven’t we all, you’re nothing special.¨
He states this with a kindness, I’d call warmth.
Even though he’s tearing my mind apart,
he’s making me feel as though I am home.

¨You have no idea of the pain I’ve felt!¨
I yell into the night, all on my own.
¨You have no idea of what I’ve been through.¨

I could have predicted, what would come next.
¨Why don’t you enlighten me, my dear boy.¨
I turn and head back to the Chestnut Tree.

As I retrace my steps, I wonder if
my intention is just to clear my name.
To confront a man, who has me dismissed,
as a living, breathing, melodrama.
Or is it to learn something as simple
as this strangers name. I think that’s the case.

He’d probably say something like ¨No no,
my friend, if I was to give you my name,
you’d have the upper hand, what is yours first?¨

I laugh to myself, ¨Yes! That’s what he’d say.¨
The only light I can see is the moon,
on this very unwelcoming back street.
I can hear the rats scuttling, and the
drug dealers whispering to their clients.
I’m not very strong, I should be afraid,
but I can’t concentrate on anything.

Another light enters the darkness now.
It’s the small, glimmering, high street entrance,
to the Chestnut Tree Cafe. A home for
artists, poets and musicians alike.

I push open the door and peer inside.
The old poet, is nowhere to be seen.

08/13/2007

Author's Note: I'm enjoying writing these way too much to give up now. Part III on the way

Posted on 08/13/2007
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