Do what you want to do not out of obligation, but to experience something new. When did life get so old, when did the bucket list become the goal? It's just another checklist meant to make us persist for one more day, let's end it. At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, pardon my Latin but why wait until tomorrow when today is yours so seize it.

First Place:

In loving grace I remember still,
Her words like pin-***** tender thrills,
Sent shivers up my spine,
To race my heart in rising time.

A pounding beat and nervous air,
To match there eager step,
And cautious charm,
That was love as I saw then,
A distant hope,
With reaching arm.

I look upon those tender days,
With eyes of old and fading grace,
Such hope for one who was so young,
So much of life still yet to run.
Yet odds be ****** for odds they were,
And with them stood a chance for first.

And so I charged into the race,
leaving some I knew in saddened state,
For what chance had they,
Who could not beat,
The odds laid bare for all to see.

The long-shot man had beat them so,
With blinders on and endless hope.
Yet race's end would see him fall,
With those who entered,
One and all.

For she it seemed,
Cared not for one who ran the race,
And so there lay in broken state,
With memories kept in bitter taste,
A mound of broken hearts and graves.

If I'm being honest, it's like a monster hiding in my closet that I don't want to acknowledge because the moment that I do it becomes real.

It's like the things that I feel don't really matter, because honestly I'm happier gathering up the pieces of my memory that I left behind while trying to survive then I am just being alive.

Because for me, my life is a movie I don't really watch, it's just the background noise I keep on repeat to distract myself from getting lost in memory as more of them pass by.

To be honest I don't remember much until the age of nine, when I said goodbye to my father to see my dad for the first time. We got along well.

Then comes me at ten, a timid, tense, and nervous wreck going in for my first routine check with the doctor before he told me a repeat surgery would make me a temporary amputee every couple of years, a common practice.

Next is me at twelve all perplexed because my heart swelled the first time I met an angel. I remember well her broken wings had the most beautiful feathers I'd ever seen, they were black and grey with hints of scattered ink beneath, so she didn't mind when I asked to borrow one for a pen so I could begin to express in words how often she took my breath away.

After that was the aftermath of me from fourteen to sixteen wishing I could take back every word I wrote. Every memory was either a quick stick-and-move jab or a knockout-punch quote that to this day I can't come back from.

Ever since then it's just been re-runs of the same show day in and day out, I wake up with a smile flipped from last night's failure to pen anything new, and pick up the pieces that fell through the cracks from the day before.

Child's play degrades with age and makes its way on through the days, until its mark is cast away and in its place are aches and pains.

In memory's love it makes its stay before the times of old and grey, and gives its best of laughter joyous to see you off on life's great voyage.

A time for you to see the sights marked by many empty nights, filled with wonder for the day of what to do in golden rays.

For the sun leaves too and in its passing leaves the moon which wanes and waxes, to say to you in crescent fashion a month has past in life's contraption.

As time does fade in passing days and leaves behind with little trace, the things you knew were true in spades to see them easily replaced.

When boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left to sit and ponder,
On curious mysteries,
Small and grand,
Of life and endless wander.

The smallest step first taken young,
Has led him now to this,
Few memories left,
They all have run,
And now are sorely missed.

He ponders silent the quiet nights,
He spent so freely doing nothing,
Recalling then,
With small delight,
How often he'd been bluffing.

Saying things akin to lies like,
"Soon I'll speak my mind,
I'll leave this place,
And cut all ties,
I'll leave it all behind."

Yet in his mind,
He knew the truth,
Buried far beneath,
He made the lies for simple use,
To keep him on his feet.

For when boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left alone with thoughts,
Of endless time,
Which life demands,
And how quickly time is lost.

He thinks of things,
Like yesterday,
And how happy he was when,
To ease the fear and pain away,
Of facing there and then.

And soon he finds all time is up,
As marked by shades of grey,
He ponders then,
Too late it seems,
Of what to do today.

Across these lonely shores I've been,
Countless times before,
Tracing lines into the sand,
To connect to something more.

I write a name to shape a face,
And reflect in shades of gray,
How it felt to see this place,
With others here to stay.

I remember all,
And all to well,
I recall a simple smile,
Telling me to just relax,
And reminisce awhile.

And who am I to deny these ghosts?
They soothe my soul with ease,
So I sit down to have a chat,
With my old memories.

But all good things must come to end,
Or so the saying goes,
I say goodbye to my old friends,
And remember that I'm alone.

Once upon a time, I knew how to write. I knew every line, every word like they were child's play came to me with ease and speed to say the perfect thing in just the right way to say the thought that was stuck on my mind. The thing is, that was back then, when I believed in "Once upon a time."

My gift came first with the gentle game of love, and left with it's heart-break curse. I'd put pen to paper to write a verse that would take away all doubt of my genuine aspersions, as days marked the preparation it took for me to work up the courage to even try to find the perfect words, but it was all worth it. After all, what greater call is there to a sleeping heart than that of love?

But alas my gift was dashed upon the rocks like my fairy tale hopes, and I spent the next few years moping about how I'd lost it all. I tried to write, to express how I felt, but nothing ever felt right.

And now I feel I've lost my way. All my words have left me today, and soon there will be nothing to say.

So with the few lines I have left in my head, I just want to say that once upon a time..

I knew how to write.