Time After Time

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.

[8.21.04]

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? 

10 Minutes: An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse

Here’s the title of your post: “An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse.”

Set a timer for ten minutes, and write it. Go!


 

It’s the offer I can’t refuse,
this thing he just offered me,
“step into the time machine,” he said,
“and maybe your life will be

just the way you’d have wanted it,
if you had had the chance.
Come on in, close the door and turn the dial,
step in time with your life’s new dance –

where every decision you make is the right one,
and every wrong you’ve done is unmade.
So step into my time machine,” he said to me,
“this is no game, you’re not being played.”

And so I take a step inside and shut the door,
I turn the dial to the year I was born.
But all I want to do is see the truth,
how my parents were then, their love still un-torn.

Would things have turned out differently then
if things didn’t turn out the way they did?
Would I be the same person I am now
if they didn’t make the mistakes they did?

But we all make mistakes; we’re only human.
That’s what makes each journey so unique,
when we make it through that darkness,
when we know of each painful truth that we speak.

“Make me another offer I can’t refuse,” I tell him.
“Make it true, and not just wishful thinking.
Make it speak to my heart and not to my fancies,
life is more than just doing the right thing.

“It’s making mistakes, too, and learning from them
taking responsibility and growing up.
It’s living the life that’s worth living,
it’s making the most of what’s in my cup.”

So he shut the door and bowed his head before me,
and said, “there’s nothing then here for you,
but the life that you’ve lived, that you have accepted;
you’ve made your peace.  And that’s all that you can do.”