I’ve reached something of a halfway point
Where all of this takes on a bit more meaning
The list of things I haven’t done isn’t growing longer as much as it’s growing more unlikely And yet that’s who I am
I carry guilt like a second sedimentary skin I can’t shed
Dwelling on those I have hurt, who have (hopefully) moved on
Here in this third act
where I trudge though nine to late
rather than write music
or words
I don’t know that there is creativity here
Not with my gaunt chops at least
Not like what I hoped for
Do we ever become that “hoped for”
Do we recognize what it looks like to settle
Is this like the guilt: just something else I need to let go of?