The last thing I wanted to do
was write the same book,
all over again,
only just a little bit better.
In the nine years since I,
began my first book,
one page here,
another page there,
I’d hoped I would change,
God always willing,
for the better.
Nine years’ worth of words,
compressed into just over a hundred pages.
Some I didn’t even want to read again,
except for the insistence of an editor
who would scowl if I said no.
Nine years’ worth of shredded hearts,
and tears that were not cried.
Of alcohol related indecision,
and bad decisions made in haste.
Nine years’ worth of growing up
at an age when most just grow old.
going on my tenth year since the beginning,
with a second book just months away
from crawling its way down
the publishing birth canal,
I am at a place
where all I see in my words
is the same words,
Nine years’ worth of hope,
regurgitated upon page after page,
still looking like they always did.
They are all I know,
And they are mine.
© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday