It is now 3:38 in the morning.
I should be sleeping but instead
Find myself traversing
The recesses of old notebooks
Trying to remember the me
Who filled them.
The dreamer that I was feels
Long gone sometimes.
The love I believed in washed away
With the seasons.
The imagined field that I would
Someday run through
Like a finish line seems lost.
Sometimes I can't remember
Why I started writing.
But here I am at the cusp
Of a new beginning,
Finding new reasons to hope
That tomorrow when I flip
Through these pages I will
Remember the me that wrote them.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
It is now 3:38 in the morning.
I should be sleeping but instead
Find myself traversing
The recesses of old notebooks
Trying to remember the me
Who filled them.
The dreamer that I was feels
Long gone sometimes.
The love I believed in washed away
With the seasons.
The imagined field that I would
Someday run through
Like a finish line seems lost.
Sometimes I can't remember
Why I started writing.
But here I am at the cusp
Of a new beginning,
Finding new reasons to hope
That tomorrow when I flip
Through these pages I will
Remember the me that wrote them.
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