All I am is what is in my past.
Inside these walls I scour each corner,
dig within each drawar,
crouch to the floor to search
beneath each table and chair.
And all I ever find is what is no longer there.
Standing up and looking around me:
There is a boy reclining on the couch.
A baby waiting impatiently to greet me
and the world I'm supposed to make for it.
How long do I have to wait
before they make it into the annals of time?
How long before they become the past
and I can finally give them the words they deserve?
As always, too late. My path in life
is to walk one step behind
until one day it's just too late
and all there is left for me
is to write about the things I could never say
when faced with reality. Now,
there are only the things I could say
to the past and it's retreating back.
All I am is what is in my past.