Being 64

I sit here, wondering,

I’m 64 and still not sure.

My mind is awash with thoughts,

they swell up like high tide.

I’m Canute trying to ebb the flow,

but it’s relentless,

there’s no turning back.

So I write,

everyday,

every thought,

every feeling.

I write, it’s a flood,

of a pent up life.

Of not being smart,

of not being a star.

Now, I’m breaking free,

from the bonds of opinion.

My words are mine,

incomplete as they are,

a vision of the dreams,

unfulfilled by the fear.

So here I sit,

I’m 64, no longer willing,

to be silenced by old nightmares.

I write,

imperfect as it may seem,

but I write,

I’m 64, there’s is so much more,

to life, to love, to be.

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