((AN: I wrote each of these little stanzas on the little sheets of scrap paper we keep by the phone for taking messages where I work. I put it in the poetry category, but it's not exactly poetry per se; it's more like artsy prose with cool line-breaks in weird places just because I like them. The first one just kind of poured out my second or third day on the job, and I decided to make it a habit every time I have a few minutes of downtime and some thoughts that need a voice. Each one expresses something that I was thinking or feeling on the day that I wrote it; some are the result of different events, like seeing someone I knew in High school or getting a crisis phone call that I didn't know how to deal with or clients being rude to me. Some of these thoughts may be unfounded, harsh, silly, or ultimately incorrect, but they all reflect my immediate impressions at the time.))

My side of the window
is like watching through a T.V.
screen
because the seven-digit numbers I see falling apart
through bullet-proof glass
don't cry until I'm driving home
with the wind in my hair
preparing for another night
of wasting time.

From my side of the window
it often seems
that the other side of the glass
must be coated with the color
of resentment
A dingy film that magnifies blemish
funhouse mirror distortions
that cast a glare of hate and regret
on my side of the window.

My side of the window…
is rather stuffy today.
The dust is settling
and so is my resolve
into stasis.
On the other side of the window,
the faces are starting to blur
the voices slur
(well, I guess they always did that).
Don't let me fall asleep…
Don't let me lose so early in the fight
I don't want to fail before I try
Please God…
Send and electric-charged wake-up call
from the other side of the window.

On the other side of the window…
I wonder do they see
the unsorted and unsettled mess
of mistakes
piled at my back
or the heap of broken, half-friendships
that I'm supposed to pretend are whole
or the red eyes
or the salt stains
or the rolling cascades of cellulite;
or do they only see
the fact that I
am on this side of the window?

On my side of the window…
It becomes clearer than ever
how when it matters most
when the stakes are life and death
how people just
DO NOT COMMUNICATE
on either side of the window.

My side of the window…
is very un-creative
and non-eloquent today.
It is far too cold for May;
holds all our clients at bay.
My music I cannot play,
Because 'tis board-meeting day.
Stupid rhyming I will now stay.
It seems no matter how hard one tries
filing and shuffling
multi-colored leaves of pureed trees
just can't be made interesting.
Do I seriously have to be here
when there's not a single living soul
on the other side of the window?

From the other side of the window…
I must look like an idiot.
Why is it so hard to learn
to be generous with my smiles
and hoard my grains of salt?

On my side of the window…
It's sometimes surprisingly easy to forget
that these stacked cream cardboard slots
are really priceless tomes
of thousands of stories
rich in color
raw in heart
stark, and stripped
of fluffy words from minds without understanding.
Maybe there's nothing to be ashamed of
to have a manila folder
so brimming with life
with your name on it.
Maybe it's the other side of the window
where life is really happening.

Sometimes,
on this side of the window,
when the day is high
and all you want to do
is go outside
and soak up the sky
and show the world there is reason to
rejoice;
sometimes you just want to
shove the Holy Spirit
right through peoples' chests
just to see some action
on the other side of the window.