To this day

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

At 23

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?

I’m 45.

Still alive.

Despite living recklessly.

My only regret

Is having hid what I meant

Writing experimentally

In order n


I never said or cried

A way to I denied

When I fucked up that night

She died

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