I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Out of Touch

I don’t understand you because I don’t know you. Why you say such things or why to me.

Things don’t always appear quite right. Nor do specifics make sense.

There’s no farther to go now. I’ve already crossed that border.

It’s a good time in my own world. Where I’m alone but in good company.

It’s at times like these – when I have to re-read and type out these craptacular poems – that I curse the teacher that encouraged me to continue writing poetry. I’m sure she meant well, but even she would take back her positive comments if she could read this dung.