As I stare at my oncoming future,
it looks quite a bit like my past.
Though my heart could sure use some sutures,
perhaps I can get it to last.
The old year is packing a suitcase,
to head off to places unknown.
Trying to put on a bright face,
although his sole purpose is gone.
And the new year still waits on the sidelines,
but the pressure he feels is insane.
We expect him to fix all our bad times
and somehow erase all our pain.
Like the last-minute deal of a martyr,
we promise to be someone else.
We’ll bargain and haggle and barter,
instead of improving ourselves.
We put off the changes we’re needing,
we shove them all under our beds.
Perfecting all our self-defeating,
while ignoring the voice in our heads.
So I gaze at the me of tomorrow,
and she looks like the me that I am.
The me yet to be has my sorrows,
unless I come up with a plan.
I won’t curse the year that has ended
or praise the new one drawing near,
or expect to be magically mended
‘cause a ball finally drops in Times Square.
Barbie Angell
© 2013
Yes, Barbie Angell is back with her special poems & illustrations! The image leading off the post is one of her pieces in a show in Asheville, NC.
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