The masks that I wear are crumbling.
Naked, I stand alone,
wondering as I watch you sleep,
will I ever find my way home?
For I’ve lost myself again.
The words I speak, repetitions from the past
Reliving each moment as I speak them
How much longer can this charade last?
For even as the world around me churns forward
I’m constantly pedaling back in time,
reliving every moment without seeking resolutions
empty words repeating, time after time.
I’ve lost myself again amidst a past long gone
seeking your pity and wasting precious time
like a record stuck along an ever deepening groove,
every mistake from the past repeating,
time after time.
This is an old poem I just found while cleaning my little writing corner and debating whether I should destroy this and all the other poetry and drawings like I do all my diaries and hand-written poetry from that time.
Do you ever destroy your poetry? Maybe the ones written during sad times or do you keep them? Why?