Dear Sir

Today's poem will be part one of two.  Letter poems, if you wish to describe them as such.  Don't know where they'll take me.  But I go where they will.


Dear sir,
I would like to inform you that it is,
In fact,
Incredibly difficult to be a woman.  You men
You have it so easy.  You don't have to worry
about things like the right perfume, perfectly applied make-up, appealingly plump lips,
batting eyelashes, keeping trim because thin is always in, having perky breasts,
fitting into dresses, or a million other things.
Or proving that you have a brain behind the bombshell exterior, that you have business savvy
And can make a profit.  There's no glass ceiling for you, no sir.
There's no need for you to prove that you're more than a vapid, simpering
pile of womanly nerves and flighty thoughts.
You don't have to be demure or "ladylike."
In fact, you get laughs when you... expel gas from either end.
Nor do you have to censor your thoughts so that people will accept you
in "polite society."
So, please, sir, tell me.  Just how have you managed to get it so easy?


And now for those paragraphs you've all been waiting for!  I'm opting for two this time.


"No matter how long you know someone, they always have a secret.  That's my experience at least.  I remember Libby."  My cigarette glowed a dull red-orange in the night.  "We knew each other for years.  She was a quiet thing, soft-spoken and dainty.  She trusted too easily, but walked through life with more personal joy than anyone I ever knew.  It was a facade only.  The face she showed to the public and to her friends, no matter what was going on with her life.
"They say it's always the quiet ones, ya know?  I know what you're thinking," I said softly, taking a drag from the cig in my hand.  "This isn't some tale of a depressed woman who wants nothing more than to die.  No, as I said, Libby was full of joy.  Nor is it some tale of pining for lost love.  As long as I knew her, she never dated anyone, never even expressed interest in someone and she had a few suitors.
"No, you see, it may not seem shocking out of context, but Libby was the owner of an upscale fetish club.  Demure office worker by day, slinky vixen by night.  A secret, of course.  And not the first, or only one she had.  Ah, but this may just seem like I'm rambling to you.  But she is only one example.  We all have secrets, you and I.  Dark little corners so covered in locks and cobwebs even we're afraid to open them to the light."  I laughed, a bitter sound.


Okay, that was a bit long.  It's not initially where I was going to take it, but I rather like the direction it went.  Comments are appreciated, as always!


I have never been able to find a place in my house where I can curl up with a good book, a drink, and some music and not be found.  It's a small house.  Just enough room for us.  But is has no secrets.  No way to lock the door and tune out the sound.  It has acoustics good enough to hear shouting just about anywhere.  And this lack of privacy grinds away, day after day after day.  It's like being in public every moment of your life, no place to unwind and relax or cool off after a fight.  People just barging in and out.  I'm not sick of it, exactly, but I do wish there was something more I could do.  Parents coming to ask me what I'm doing.  A brother who sees fit to be a constant thorn in my side.  Oh yes, I wish there was something more I could do.


Meh.  That was mediocre at best.  It's a good sentence, but just not one that I felt was easy to expand, ya know?