Posting this one totally unedited.
The more things change
the more they remain the same.
Or maybe I just live in cycles
that repeat themselves.
Looking at something I wrote
over five years ago,
that looks like it could have been written
yesterday
or today
or tomorrow.
To every thing there is a season,
For every right there is a wrong.
And for every word I write
there is another word left unsaid,
that I will write on another day.
And on and on it goes.
Over the years.
I seem to change
but my writing tells me
a story of repeating themes
cycles of grief, anger, love, happiness,
and hope.
