Dropped the bag on the floor as I walked
into my dark room in the darkness.
Left the keys on the counter,
put my phone by my bed.
Picked it up again and scrolled again and again.
Saw the profiles of people from way in the past,
their faces the same, lives that changed.
And the world kept on spinning,
that’s the passage of time.
He who I was can now never come back
Looked forward to the beers I could drink on the weekend.
Back flat on my bed, an injured leg, an injured ego.
Books I was meant to read.
Countries I was meant to visit.
The person who I thought I was becoming does not stare back on the mirror.
A job that is good, so everyone says,
a prestigious education,
prestigious salary,
Loving family, friends and girlfriend.
But I’m not he who I wanted to be by now.
Dreams of poetry the poet, dreams of melodies the songwriter,
and I who am and will be neither,
dream of times when I could have been
poet, singer or songwriter.
But the river must meet the ocean and the ocean return as rain.
Driving in the night back home from work
I wonder if it has truly been
as it was meant to be
or not.
Perhaps never had the makings, just the intention.
The sun creeps into my room like a cat that’s hunting
and with it brings the desire to continue,
to hope and to try and to aspire
beyond my means and my condition,
and at once, I want to do it all again , all again.
The past is written just as is this poor attempt of a poem:
on irreplaceable paper,
with ink,
stored away,
full of punctuation errors and repetitiveness and poor choices.
Why hit yourself over the head
over a subpar poem
when you can write another?
Why sink yourself into mediocrity
and despair
when you can aspire?
A wooden board can stand on its own, strong, atop the water
and the townsfolk will call it a bridge.