Still Alive

Dear future self,

Those books upon your shelf

that you finally finished writing

are each a testament

to your will — you never stopped fighting.

I'm grateful, despite the fact

that, as you read this, I'll be long gone.

I'll be ink on the page,

a mode of thought to engage,

a nostalgic tapestry carefully drawn.

For, I believe, you love me now —

we both know it wasn't always so.

I hope, for your sake, you've come around —

you always tried so hard to grow.

To lick your wounds,

to change your tune,

to see the world in vibrant hues.

To use the best

of your abused duress —

to channel it, like the kings of the blues.

But the truth of the matter is,

you never had it half as hard as them.

Your brokenhearted heroes

with their poignant apothegms...

you know, you can never be them.

But you can be you for someone else.

Present family, future friends,

you can be the you who excels

at giving back to a graceful world.

At uplifting those within your reach,

at breaching new and fertile ground,

instead of moving only you

and moving only down.

But surely you've figured this out by now —

black hole is not a good look on you,

so here's hoping you've found a mirror.

Your conscience implored you for years on end.

I wonder, when did you finally hear her?

I'm making assumptions

with such gall and gumption

because you've shown me much of your hand.

You're still alive, and thriving,

so you've come far from the junction

of doubts, where our journey began.

How long was that road?

Did it ever get easier?

Are those grim ideations still on the attack?

If you'd rather forget, you don't have to write back...

but have you at least gotten better at finding a rhyme?

Sincerely,

you, once upon a time