As I sit back and ponder,
rereading poems I've written years before.
Thinking of the meanings and I began to wonder
are my poems just impish outbursts of a child,
Has my life not taken a step ahead,
Makes me think I've walked a few steps instead of a mile.
The same words just written differently,
Have I not changed, am I still who I was
My poems I thought they were my escape
From reality, I thought it was a door
that was going to let me run from my fate.
But as I sit here and think my eyes on the floor
I see a scene began to play, but only its a scene from a previous memory
Realizing my poems are about my past and my present but never my future wonder why?
Thinking of every poem I have ever wrote, I began to think they were all the same as a diary?
The more I think about it.
I feel as if my poems have no true meaning, no reason to exist
Maybe I'm just good at putting words together bit by bit
Until they rhyme? .....