top of page

The Ending Of One Poem Becomes The Start To Another

Time flies by

and before you know it,

you’re a kid trapped in the life

of a 30 year old.

How did this happen?

Where did the years go?

I was supposed to be something different by now.

I was supposed to be a great fighter.

I was supposed to be a great writer

I was supposed to be a great a person

but instead,

I am just


Whatever that means.

I am no one special.

I am not a great fighter.

I am not a great writer.

I am not a great person.

I am not special.

I just am.

And that’s it.

I can feel the body failing me.

I can feel the judgement by my fellow men and women.

Judgement from the ones who know me.

The ones that saw the potential when I was younger.

They look at me and think,

‘What the hell happened here??’

I have no response to them,


I too,

am asking myself

the same question.

I know time is ticking.

I know the body is decaying.

I know I am not who I wanted to be.

I know my youth is behind me.

I suppose what this is now is something like


I don’t know how to give up on my visions of myself I had when I was younger.

I still want to be more.

I feel it down into my bones;

the desire to be someone,

the desire to matter,

the desire to make those years of hard work and belief

pay off.

But part of growing up

is realizing that it might never happen.

And that’s okay.

I am still stuck with the burden of existence.

And I still have to do something with it.

So I keep trying

and I think I will always try

until the day that I die

or until the day I feel like I’ve made it,

whichever comes first,

for better or worse.

6 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

They say that I have a hard face And that I am guarded They say that I am rough around the edges They say I have opinions And that I am a little different They tell me that I am difficult And that my

I have one friend Who is jealous of my single life With all my dates and stories But he Has a good job And a good wife And a good home And a good daughter And a son on the way He doesn’t see it But I

There’s a poetry night coming up here in a few days But my hands are too shaky to write And my body is too broken to fight My mind is too wild to sit still And my will fell ill awhile ago And the ego

Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page