Words
The talents of people astound me. It could be the way they think of the words and meanings and put them into phrases, or the way that they could simply smile and you feel like your flying, or the way that they can kick that ball into the top shelf just slightly over the keepers finger tips and the reaction from the crowd thunders across the field. Even if it’s three people.
The emotions of people interest me. The cry from a child at the simplest problem or the cool and calm reaction after a catastrophe. The spill of tears with the confusion of your emotions or the denial of something even when you want to believe it. The shriek of happiness when a goal is reached or the faint, sad smile at a promise while you just hope and wish and dream that you can keep it because this person means so much to you. The pointless lie that they tell even though it is completely and utterly obvious that it is not the truth or the brave and courageous honesty because you know the hurt they feel now is much better then the pain they’d feel later on.
The secrets of people intrigue me. Was that flash of teeth you call a smile really real? Or that laugh you produced at lunch because they walked by and you felt obligated to share that you were happy, at least, trying to be. Is that whisper something you used to cover up your pain so it wasn’t exposed or a gesture to protect someone you love. Why do you honestly like that person? Because, I can’t see a single reason for it. You must know them better then I do. Do you have another side? Are you exposing every single thing you can so you can’t have any secrets when secretly you don’t know that that it’s self is a secret? These things I want answers to, but then what mystery would be left in life?
The inspiration people feel makes me smile. The way that those words scribbled across the page seem so beautiful or that mess on the floor seemingly looks like an image so you must make somehting of it. The smile of the person you love makes your heart spring so you must make that feeling known. That depressing hatred for something you don’t want to love, but can’t control it causing you to do things, like write a poem and coincidently mention that phrase.
Reading minds would be horrible.
