I feel things intensely
and revel in my own silence.
You will never know.

And I will never know
if that is your wish,
to be kept in the dark.

We should end up
just another cheap Jane Austen rip-off
of missed subtleties,
of stifled passions,
of suffocating one-dimensionality.

Worse still, our friends
will tar us with the same brush
that swept America red, and paint
the MyFace airwaves blue, when we choke
on the plume of our sensibilities.

I would propose we walk away now;
dodge the whole long line of could-be's,
but that would be just as perfect
as any other almost.
No, let's make this mess,
take the selfishness of imperfection
and bend it to its knees;
cry intensity until silence
mimes itself to sleep.

06/19/2010

Author's Note: Anita Mac Auslan -- a woman who knows her own mind [how scary is that?], and an artist who makes poetry a pleasure...

Posted on 06/18/2010
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