The deeper I get into revisiting old journals and the poetry of my past, it’s starting to seem like I was writing these words of wisdom to slap my older self across the face. Or could it be that the soul really does just go around in circles?
The hours pass
Like streams of sand
Through a glass
Pressed for time.
Or an empty space
Built on trust
Filled with dust
Blessed with rhyme.
When a word strayed
This world I made
Finally made sense
Except for me
And my pretense.
Where did I think
I’d be
Without all this crass?
Can you feel the grass
Beneath the shade
When we played?
A moment I missed
Chew on this
Stew on that.
What to do
When we knew
The bow was broke
And so are you.

Poetic Past v.7 / ca. 2000

-Be Love-

Guy Clark – “Maybe I Can Paint Over That”

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