The same mistakes over and over
Addicted to the error
Flagellated by the outcome
Just for a taste of sublime wrong
I sing old songs
I get on my own nerves
So I suppose I deserve this
All of this.
And yet maybe I’m making small changes each time
To the words. To the rhyme.
Enough so that I can live with myself.
And maybe all these little changes
Will alter the big picture
And my mistakes will stand up tall and will no longer quiver
And there will come a day when I won’t consider them flaws when I will hit pause and see
That all these things are just part of me
And that the whip I use to beat myself
Is not made of leather but only words
But oh those words can sting
They can cause such harm
Built of old ways and old fears
Ancient rivers sodden with tears.
Tears that no longer run true
But still manage to soak
To turn me into sop.
To muddled mess with dying fish floating at the surface.
I need to set myself free. I need to run to sea.
To disperse into bigger things
To lose my concentration.
Then maybe if I really don’t over think.
I will float instead of …