A Life Fufilled

It's Friday night,

the city rustling, my shoes too tight.

Time to leave, the streets are empty.

They're here, with me, at my bar

enjoying the company of those from the working scene,

where no one can stray even slightly afar.

 

I fear relationships;

I fear rejection;

I fear disappointment;

I hate people.

 

I love fun;

I love people's company; 

I love making friends; 

I love people. 

 

They are here, enjoying the fruits of a past that was restless. 

They sit, they talk, they'll go home.

The night will soon end, the sun will not rise about these clouds of ash.

Go home, go to work, just another day.

My face will not be in their mind;

how can I expect to be remembered? I'm nothing special.

 

But...

they will remember the smell of that freshly polished counter.

They will remember the smiles they had in here. 

They will remember that maiden in the almost too-short skirt, 

or the guy that almost ripped out of his shirt. 

The fun they had... they will remember. And come back for the same thing another night.

I fear the opinion of those who will criticize me; I want their praise.

Come in, enjoy yourself. Let loose; it's Friday. 

Tell me how bad your week was; tell me about your home life. 

 

 

Here's a drink and some food.

Enough, enjoy yourself. 

It's Friday. In a bar. 

 

My bar.

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