I wrote this poem as I sat at my desk "judging" poetry my friend had brought over from her contest that she hosts every April. I realize that poetry can move you like no other medium. Even mediocre stuff-it all has an instant connection to our psyches.
It can’t be over yet.
It makes no difference what I do
Time marches on
I love who I love
Time changes nothing
I work, I love, I cry
No regrets for me
Seems almost cricket-like
Such a hollow response
Never being exactly
Is that a bad thing?
Regrets or no is who I am
When you finally realize
What is missing
Then it is all gone
Work, love, pray
Does it matter what order?
Time munches on everything
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