Lurker

I never said hi
Or so much as a may I
Before I read
The words that you’d bled
Onto the screen
The only go-between
From you to this reader unseen

I never offered praise
Or observation on your ways
Or shielded you
From barbs the others threw
No response, no judgment
No replies to the questions you sent
Out into ether, not even acknowledgment

I watch you
That’s what I do
You entertain, you amuse
You also provoke thought, when you so choose
Your missteps, your very frailty leaves me nothing to say
It’s also the reason I’ll never go away
Where your words go, my mind will follow
Unquestioning, silent every step of the way

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

A long, very long time since I rhymed. So long ago that I even heard creaks in my head when I was turning over each word. But many of them just happened so I didn’t agonize over the ones that didn’t.

As a blogger, I know the frustration, the maddening silence of the vast majority of my readers. The ones that never comment, never answer a poll or a question, never show me their existence except in the mysterious numbers on my stats charts. But oddly, I also know the side of me that clicks through every album visible to me on the social network, spends an entire night reading every post on a particular blog, ego-surfs the names of people I know slightly (or better)….and never mentions a word of it to the person it’s about.

I know that person, by nature, is never acknowledged publicly. There’s a heavy stigma around the word ‘lurker’ with associations of creepiness and stalking. But perhaps because the newfound title of writer gives me carte blanche to be curious, maybe because I can explain it away in the pretty sentence of “Every person has a story”, I acknowledge the lurker in me.

This post is for all those nameless people, you know who you are, who’ve kept me pondering and wondering and agonizing. But really, it’s also for the people whose lives I’ve vicariously lived, who’ve shared with such generosity, the important moments of their lives, in blogposts and photographs, the people in whose lives I lurk. Thank you for everything.

Sensitive

Sensitivity is the permission you give yourself to feel.

No more, no less.

Not how much you feel about other people.
Not how much you feel about yourself.
Not how many tears you shed.
Not even how much you feel.

Simply how much you allow yourself to.

To illustrate, a poem from long ago when I was still into rhyming and used to scribble in pages torn from notebooks. Who do you suppose is being referred to here?

Sensitivity

In the midst of the masses, I see a face
Devoid of all charm and social grace
Nothing different about her, except for her eyes
Eyes that are serene, thoughtful and wise
Eyes that speak a thousand things without saying a word
Ideas and thoughts that are never hear
that tell of turmoil beneath the surface calm, that is the face we see
Feelings running deep, wild dreams that were never meant to be
Her eyes see everything,
yet love without judging
Respect every human being’s right to be
Understanding that each of us longs to be free
Eyes that cry without shedding a tear
that feel immense pain, but no fear
A heart bleeds for a world gone all wrong
where every lullaby hummed, is a grave-digger’s song
Eyes that shine with a strange, magical light
like the serene moon on a dark night
misted over in the memory of some unknown music that only she can hear
Lost in a faraway land, and yet she’s near
She blinks; the moment is gone
Nothing changes, life goes on
My words are lost in a babble of voice – harsh and loud
She’s gone – just another face in the crowd

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