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My life’s an evolving diary
each day a new page therein.
I always thought I wrote it,
but that’s not how it’s been.
Certain of those pages
come from mom and dad.
Others come from life itself;
they’re sometimes very sad.
There are pages of my diary
that have always puzzled me.
I did things I didn’t want to!
How could that ever be?
When I pause to think about it,
The answer’s plain to see.
These days I make fewer entries.
Now . . . my diary’s writing me!
Those early chapters affect me still,
and had I been more aware,
I would have better handled
every threat or dare.
My diary is an opus,
but now’s the appointed time,
to lift a pen, to alter prose
and write a life that’s mine.
As I try to write new verse,
The words just won’t take hold.
The poem comes out as before;
The lines aren’t new but old.
Those vital parts that resist this change
Are very strange indeed,
They never leave, but will submit,
When “I” resolve and lead
Anthony M. Pedone
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