Today I am a writer.
Tomorrow, if it exists at all, I will be who I was yesterday,
Immune to what I am today.
Yesterday, I was relative.
Today, if it is real, I am who I was yesterday.
Immune to what I was that day.
The world spins right past me, and in angry relief, I seem to start after it slower than ever.
Tomorrow could be a beautiful day.
A recovery for what happened today.
Maybe then I could forgive myself for what I cannot today.
Tomorrow, all it is a brand new today, and today an old yesterday.
And just when I begin to catch up with today, yesterday seems to hold me back.
The unsolved mysteries, per say, of that which I have not bothered to make sagacity of seem to come back from the longest yesterdays to wrap me up in old memories I dare not forget.
Back when I smiled, you told me I was beautiful.
But those days so rarely reappear.