I had an event when I was. 17.
I wrote about it for a class project
back in ‘93.
I tucked that piece away some place
Just something I didn’t care to read
When I turned 30 I wrote of it again.
I focused on what details my memory could bend
I kept the words light so as not to offend
I never finished this one, didn’t know how to end.
Eventually I tried to keep the story alive
I sat down to write it out now aged 35
But once again a few pages in
And the passion in me died
So just this year, I challenged myself
But first I took the others off the shelf
And read what I had said
I wrote the scene
full of sorrow and regret
I crashed a car
I bore the scars
And I wanted to repent
My words so lucent
Detailed and to a tee
Brought me back to that day
When I drove into a tree
But when I read what I had wrote
Seven years later. Well I choked
I guess I forgot how much I’d seen
Because I laughed and joked
Seemed like someone else’s notes
Some kind of distant fuzzy dream
So I turned to me
What I was about to read
Another person later down the line
And it was once again
Like another strange event
All these word they seemed like lies
Do we become so distant to what we are?
Does memory fade and harden like scars?
Despite living recklessly.
My only regret
Is having hid what I meant
In order n
I never said or cried
A way to I denied
When I fucked up that night