I am scared of what the future holds for me,
Will it be good like the future of springtime?
Will it be cold like the future of autumn?
Will it be purest white also like the future
Of autumn? Or will it be hot and blinding
Also like the future of springtime?
Will I know happiness in my life?
Will I know joy each morning as I wake?
Or shall I know sadness as I fall asleep?
Will there be my old love in my life?
Or shall I be overcome by new desire?
Will my life be like one of my stories?
Stories I wrote about versions of me
That may all exist one day or never
Depending on what I write in,
Will my writing be like my life?
Will my life be like my writing?
Have I written to heal old wounds?
Or preempt new ones before they are cut?
Am I meant to read my past?
I wish to write my future.