You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘first impression’ tag.

On a moonlit night, dressed all in black,
a man walks the streets of his town,
reflecting on the night that has passed
and also on the realization that he cannot give back.

To taxi drivers, and early-morning passers-by,
he is like a ghost in the street lights;
and as he takes a step closer towards home,
it occurs to him that no one really knows him-
people think they do, but he is not the person
that some people believe they are capturing in their sights.

We can never truly know how we are seen by others,
nor what our emanating first-impression is-
all that the man knows is that tonight
he got a glimpse into a mirror that showed him
how people perceive him,
and he wonders if it is a recurring after-image
that when he is described everyone sees.

Maybe it is because, these days,
his words speak for him without him even opening his mouth-
he has found that actions, especially his own,
have spoken silent volumes about who people are-
and that fact he too thinks long and hard about.

Perhaps he is a closed-book
that periodically and uncontrollably
sometimes has their cover opened
and their pages turned by the winds of the world,
and if it were not for a book-mark here and there
nothing about him would be known or unfurled.

We are all a mystery to one-another,
sometimes even to our friends, and our families;
sometimes we are even a mystery to ourselves-
just because we live our lives
does not mean that we know everything about our lives;
sometimes things lie out of reach on perceptions highest shelves.

Song-writers and story-tellers have been singing about and describing
men and women in black for some time now,
but until last night and this morning
this Man in Black never understood who they were talking about
and he never thought that a person like that
would be a person like me.
He wonders if he will always be a Man in Black;
however, that is not for him to know,
that is not for him to see.

In the light of day
there are not that many people who know me for being Me-
the man who gets up every morning,
and loves nothing more than watching the sunrise,
while writing beautiful poetry.

I love writing, and I love to write poetry!
To me, sometimes when I am writing a poem,
I feel like I am in the driving seat of a Formula 1 car
in the middle of a Grand Prix!
The ideas and the images that race through my mind,
the feelings that I feel when I am writing a poem,
or a rhyme that feels like it is almost writing itself,
is like having an out of body experience and revelation moment combined.
It is a rush, and a phenomenal surge of heightened awareness
of where I am, where I have been, and what I have seen;
however, when I am not writing, when I am not dreaming,
if you were to see me walking down the street,
that part of me would be utterly unnoticeable-
nowhere to be seen.

Most people don’t walk around holding a sign,
or wear a T-shirt to declare to all who they are and what they do-
most of the time the “true you” is veiled
and hidden from view.
As it should be, most people take great pride in their outer-appearance-
while asking everyone else to make up their own mind about who they are
based on how they judge people generally-
the first impression we make on, or of, someone
is usually the most lasting one,
and the one that we reflect upon in our minds memory association gallery.

If seen from far away, then I can honestly say
that my appearance would tell you absolutely nothing about the man I am,
nor what I am thinking about;
however, up-close, and in conversation,
then I feel confident that in a matter of seconds
you would glean something in me
that would eclipse your first impression forever-
of that I am in no doubt.
The first impression is a question:
is what I see all that there is?
And the answer is always the same:
no; however, the first question is always but the start of the great life quiz.

The bank clerk that I speak to every week
could be a beautiful dancer, or an amazing artist;
the waiter that brings me my lunch
could be the next Mozart, Shakespeare-
a future celebrated composer,
or a one day award-winning novelist.

You simply cannot tell who someone really is until you ask them,
and it may take a while before you see them for all that they are
from what they say, but it is not a question of will you find out
who they are, it’s a question of when.

I love a challenge, I love meeting new people,
and once I have begun something I never quit.
To me, life is meant to be loved, and made the most of.
I love to be moved, I loved to be inspired,
and I am a secret poet.

Photobucket

Archives

Twitter Updates

Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.

Poetographic

%d bloggers like this: