The Trap of Yesterday

There really isn’t any looking back.

The past is just a trap, an empty maw.

It doesn’t matter what has gone before.

The poem I had written yesterday?

I either think I’m Ozymandias

King of Kings, or that the work I’ve done

Is better than I’ll ever do again,

Or that it’s crap and everything is crap.

Flip forward to an empty page and write!

A celebration (Everyone was there!)

A mountain canyon and a waterfall

I hadn’t known existed. Hummingbirds.

The subject of my newest print. Despair!

It doesn’t matter if I fill the page

With garbage, nonsense, or the brilliant thoughts

Of genius. All that matters is I’ve filled

The page, and I’m not stuck in yesterday.


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