Bio: Sam Hendrian is a lifelong storyteller striving to foster empathy and compassion through art. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, he now resides in Los Angeles, where he primarily works as an independent filmmaker and has just completed his first feature film Terrificman.
“Nice Boring Life”
Sneaking a smoke on her 10 minute break
That she subtly extends to 11
With thoughts of curly fries
Carrying her through the rest of the week.
Doesn’t feel the need to poeticize each moment
Nor proselytize the status quo followers,
Wise enough to know that what we have
Is probably all we’ll ever have.
What would we talk about?
Nothing, and therefore everything,
Liberated from pretension,
From the tension of pretending there’s depth in shallow waters.
Though if I were to settle
For a nice boring life with a nice boring girl,
I’d wake up afraid to look at the mirror
And not recognize the face it shows.
“A Bag of Chips and a Bottle of Wine”
Raced her to the liquor store
Not that we were in any hurry
Or even knew each other
Beyond mirrored restless expressions.
She beat me to the counter
Having already picked out
A bag of chips and a bottle of wine
To keep her company the rest of the evening.
I myself was a bit slower
Taking my time reading the label
Calculating how quickly and how cheaply
I could lose myself to loose endorphins.
As she backed up from the register
And made her way out the swinging door
I hoped she felt a little less alone
Watching my eyes gazing at the merlot.
“Middle Class Ramblings”
Wore her Berkeley sweater like a trophy case,
The best thing she’d ever do
While her husband multitasked on a business call
Rambling about core technology.
If in heaven time doesn’t exist,
In hell it’s the only thing that does,
Lending our lives meaningless meaningfulness
Until “meaning” loses all sense of meaning.
Poverty carries a certain wholesome thrill
Like scrounging up quarters to buy a donut
‘Til you end up envying the Olive Garden regulars
Who never have to check their checking accounts.
Most people are miserably bad at connecting
Despite how much they crave to be connected with,
Nodding their heads like puppets
Pantomiming understanding.
Took off her Berkeley sweater
And forgot it on the cafe chair,
Or perhaps it wasn’t an accident,
Perhaps she craved a different trophy.
“7 Billion-Piece Puzzle”
Scattered and tossed like the ashes of a newspaper mogul
With no specific sense of direction
Other than the front page
Destined to be tossed out the next morning.
Though even the front page is a pipe dream
That seldom makes its way down the pipeline
For those who crave recognition
More than love.
When we reach the point of wishing
We had someone to connect with
Other than our own jagged edges,
Our own frames of reference,
We only find maybe 100 other pieces
Despite the 7 billion
Dotting the mercilessly vast landscape
Of our box.
“To Know About Love”
I’ve had many a revelation about love
That I’ve failed to put into practice,
Keeping it stored at the back of my mind
While I choose to remain blind.
Guess it’s not enough to know something
Or even apply it on a now-and-then basis;
It must become as constant as breath
Flowing in every direction.
Except each night my breath ends up smelling like wine
And other momentary numbing tactics,
Thoughts not nearly close to the truth
That people are more than possibilities.
Perhaps it’s a desire to eat the cake
Without it disappearing from the fridge,
An addiction to staying lost
Because of how good it feels to be found.
Yet if I keep winding up lost,
What’s the point of being found?
Can’t promise I’ll love any better tonight,
But my guardian angel deserves the attempt.
Fevers of the Mind 