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
heartbreak.
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
day
hour
second
breath
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 --
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 I push through the lack,
and by some grace find
myself
here
again
starting over
on Day One.
again
starting over
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