a realization has come:
I’ll never be more
than I am this day.
The sum total of all
I have ever been
is now all I will be.
The hope
that the essence of “me”
was not anchored
could rise over itself
to reach new heights
is gone,
and all the new words
I put down on a page
are the same ones
I’ve put there before.
Not more wise,
just clothed in new guise!
Like the mockingbird
singing other birds’ songs
yet no matter his skill
inside each iteration
is his voice, alone.
So the poems I write
about who or whatever:
they’re just me
and that’s all they will be.
They can never be
more.
My Life in the Slower Lane 
Your poem is timeless, Ellen. And I can’t imagine another person as beautiful as you in the words you penned. xx
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Thanks so much, Shelley. And let me add that it takes one to know one! : – )
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Awwwwwww! xx
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Wow. “…they’re just me…”- that is enough. Your poem speaks volumes and gets to the heart of what many of us feel. Thank you.
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Thanks. It’s a hard thing to describe, especially since I’m not really sad about it. I love what’s true, period.
On Sat, Jan 11, 2020 at 12:12 PM My Life in the Slower Lane wrote:
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That acceptance comes through in your poem. Not everyone will reach that place of loving what’s true. I really appreciate the way you express it.
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