"She Reads Books While She Walks," Anonymous (infamous slam poem)
She reads books while she walks.
Her long white skirt is kind of see-through,
but that just might be my imagination.
Her black bra straps wrap around her sun-tanned shoulders peaking ever so gently out of
her blue tank top stopping just below her waist line.
She's worn this outfit before.
But she gets shit done in it.
She reads books while she walks.
Her ring tone came with the phone,
but she never hears it anyway.
She doesn't have a favorite TV show,
but she has a place where she always gets coffee.
She doesn't call it her favorite though.
Her skirt sticks to her hips on Mondays and Wednesdays
but blows in the wind on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Her job would like to give her a promotion,
but that would mean she'd have to start paying off her student loans.
She reads books while she walks.
She periodically misses her Poly Sci class.
You know the one with the old Professor
who reluctantly lets her answer all the questions.
But luckily the cute boy who sits behind her took notes.
She'd date him if she didn't have a purpose in life.
And if she wasn't already seeing this other guy.
He's not the one and she doesn't mind that she'll never meet his mother.
But she repels pity; this whole relationship shit fell off her priority list a long time ago.
She reads books while she walks.
Because think of all the productivity that can be produced from point A to point B.
Her point B lies light years away.
Her point B is so bright that it still lights the long, long trip from point A.
Her point B is talked about with a hint of admiration and a dose of jealousy by those who fell into their point B's.
Her point is not to just be.
It is to believe.
It is to become.
It is to bestow upon others what she's learned.
Her gift of wisdom.
Her blood rush of compassion.
Her vein-slapping of sensibility.
Asking her what classes she wants to take next quarter
is like asking a six year old boy what he wants for his birthday.
Asking her what she wants to do with her life
is like asking Tolstoy to jot down a few words about conflict.
Asking her if she is free on Friday night because you'd like to get to know just a little bit more about her
is like asking NASA if there is any spare room on the space shuttle for a star-gazing stowaway.
She reads books while she walks.
And be careful because if you ask her out she might just say yes.
She might just talk to you for hours about the work of the one psychologist who you remember learning about but quickly forgot about after the midterm.
But the way she explains how the waves in your brain respond to physical stimulation penetrates your rib cage.
Rips your heart strings out of your chest.
Ties knots not even boy scouts can figure out.
And lets what's left fall to the ground.
Every little inch of string.
Every little inch of what makes your soul sing.
And she says, you shouldn't have asked me out cause I don't have time for encores.
She reads books while she walks because our closest star only gave her 24 hours a day.
But she's never had anyone tell her that she is her own star.
She makes her own light.
She makes her own orbit.
She makes her own energy.
She reads books while she walks but her footsteps write poetry.
