behind me
a past lies, never silent
constantly reminding me
the mistakes I have made
only eighteen short years
but they have piled up
like the books I collect
the junk that sits in my drawer
the poetry I've written about
broken hearts
it refuses to pipe down
and some days it is hard to ignore
because
in front of me
a future waits, always silent
no matter the questions I ask
answers can never be found
instead, each day must be lived
the stretching years in front of me
must be louder than the eighteen
behind me
and yet, the future issues not a peep
the ending of a novel
if I shall find true love
where I will be in
one year's time
certainly more important than
where I was
one year ago
