Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Day 17: Starting Over

It's day 17 of my 30 days of poetry.  I'm getting tired of hearing my voice.  I mean seriously.

Starting over

Day One always feels like 
Like facing your nightmare
your fear
your biggest bully
it is resentment,
I'm sorry,
forgive me
and let's try again
rolled up with
scraped together hope --
the sort that's a little stale
from being left over 
in the bottom of the barrel.

Day One is a vaguely formed belief in tomorrow
mashed into the mess of yesterday.
I don't know
how Starting Over is made,
but this life
is nothing more than a series of Starting Overs
that feel a little like failure,
even as you tell me each 
is a chance
to begin again.

But you don't know how Day One feels like darkness.
Day One smells like mountain
like unknown
like no clear answers.
It tastes like regret that tries too hard to be masked by hope
it is bitter
and does not go down easy.
Day One only happens
by living through the Last Day
and those Last Days:
they will threaten to unbind your skin from your body.
They are cracks in the pavement that ache your bones,
they live in you,
as you start over in Day One
grasping for stars and knowing they're only 
glow-in-the-dark plastic stuck to the ceiling 
with two-sided tape.

There are two sides
to every day
if you'll only dare to flip the coin
knowing there's a chance
that Last Day might still be coming
and knowing Day One is just as hard --
I don't know how we do this.
I don't know why this life is only
an endless rotation of Last Days and Starting Overs,
but I push through the excess,
and I push through the lack,
and by some grace find myself
starting over
on Day One.

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