Prose Poetry-Wasted Days

Wasted days,

I have wasted time.

I have dreamt of becoming more,

But I fear I have wasted my life.

I never thought about much,

As I gave myself away.

I never cared about who I was,

As he gave me my name.

Deeper than my fears that wrestled from within,

Was a fear of not knowing?

If there was enough reason,

I should dare to begin.

I am always on the edge of hearing the answers to what I have asked.

But as the tide flows in-

The answers are no longer within my grasp.

I have been angry at the world,

For reasons I do not understand.

I’ve been angry at myself,

For not being who it is I know I am.

I can’t be angry anymore,

For this anger is harsh.

It has taken away my ability to focus on the world.

I brush the fear off my sleeve,

And let my pen hit the pad.

I write about my hurt,

And give to words the fears that I have had.

Should I still bother to try,

Even when I feel I have already lost?

I am tired of paying dues,

For a high priced confusion with unbelievable cost.

Do I still keep an illusion of wisdom and truth?

Or has my soul let go of the hurt that I had chosen to use?

My pen bleeds deep and stays put as I write.

As I look down to my pen,

I begin to re-read my life.

Pages and Pictures,

Journals and Scribes,

They are descriptions of me and the journey of my life.

The lyrics of my life-

As they form into prose.

Recreate a girl I once was

And I sometimes fear I still know.

I look up at the light-

And I close my eyes

I can see the darkness-

I can feel the twilight.

Finally I feel my hopes,

As my pen continues to bleed.

I can reread the story of how I became me.

Fear of not fitting in,

A dream I once dreamt.

An illusion I created

To make all the sins form logic

I can no longer feel the hate

I see the definition of the lost

I don’t need the scribe I have written

To know what the story of my prose has ultimately cost.

I write and I describe,

The story of my life.

I give it my truth,

Careful it isn’t a lie.

No matter the prose,

I describe in my words.

I have become closer to what I once hoped.

Meddle in my life,

Chances I was the darkness I described.

I cannot chance the change,

Without changing the chance I took in my scribes.

I reread the story of how I became me,

I feel my hand tremble,

As I allow my pen to bleed.

The words flow like tears,

As I wipe them from a cheek,

I am no longer lost,

I have become a completed version of what use to be.

I look at the tears as they fall into ink,

I watch the colors run down,

I watch them run into the words of me.