Rereading Stories
I reread a story
I wrote years ago and
I hated it. Spineless
preachy assurances
backed by dogma. Smug boy.
Principled young man with
direction. Genuine.
Now wasting, confused, hurt
frustrated, indifferent.
Then, sure. I wear the same
yellow jacket but lines
have formed clear from years of
furrowed brows. Years of hard
disappointments, despair.
They will never publish.
They will mock me always.
I am envious of
my story years ago.
A character I wish
I could honestly be.
A focused boy proud of
his routine; affirmed goals.
Someone who yearned for things
that rivaled paradise.
He believed he could have
them. He was charming I
am broken lost unwise
decisions. I hate that
story and I have not
finished reading the first
paragraph. Smug young man.
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