Let’s change it up, I’ve been so serious… oops, this could be considered a wee bit serious, too, so just have fun with it, totally overlook the message!
OOPS. I posted this in ’story form’, but I had written it all chopped up in a semi poetic form… most of the words are the same, but the story form just isn’t readable (guess I should have tried to read it first… So I dumped it and am republishing it here as a “poem”… I think it is easier to understand.
High Heels and Fairy Tales (a pretty rough, as always, draft)
It was her chosen footwear that was
her downfall
and
her rise.
She was not a high-heeled kind of woman
(at heart)
rather,
jeans and sweatshirts,
barefoot and
no, not that, just barefoot.
Her instinct was to wear
flat shoes,
(well, almost flat)
studded with rhinestones
(in a most tasteful way)
New Year’s Eve,
in her normal manner,
her own judgment she shoved
deep into a well filled with should haves,
where they tumbled and spoke among themselves,
each one, selfishly planning its own rebellion,
each one, trying to outdo the other’s outrageous plan,
each one then too tired to do more than sink.
It was judgment of others she wore
as she always had,
sometimes haphazardly,
oft ill fitting,
one size fits all,
either too restricting
or much too liberal
causing behavior unnatural
to her
jeans and sweatshirts,
barefoot and
no, not that, just barefoot.
She teetered on
her translucent orange heels
that alternately magnified the colors flashing
off the disco ball
and
the darkness in the soul of her partner
(the one the other woman chose for her)
but it was, of course,
the colors flashing
that she chose to see.
(I must interject here:
I would love to say
that dark souled man
twirled her out and
jerked her back in,
and was thus responsible for her rise,
but such was not the case,
and she was much too practiced
at shoving reality into yet another well,
deeper than the first.)
She was left alone,
as he rushed to greet a friend
(Yes, you and I saw just how
intimate was the greet)
yet still managed to twist her ankle
as she teetered on
her translucent orange heels
that alternately magnified the colors flashing
off the disco ball
and
the darkness in the soul of her partner
(the one the other woman chose for her)
And like any good fairy tale,
she was caught,
but, by an under dressed
(by fashion, not by skin exposed)
prince charming,
one more impressed by
jeans and sweatshirts,
barefoot and
no, not that, just barefoot
(for now).
and one who just waited
(though impatiently)
until those living in her well
made a compromise and climbed out,
if only
to see why
fewer
had been dumped
on top of them.
MeeAugraphie
01/26/08
