Dear 2017,

I think I've lost the script.

I just had it

Revised and re-revised.

Everyone wanted a say.

So, what happened?

Now, a storm's blown in

Flipped the set over

Tossed the walls aside.


There's a cold sweat

Going down my back.

Fragments hover past me.

Around me, the world oscillates

Between comedy and tragedy.


I feel like an untethered balloon

Floating through the clouds.

My direction dictated by every passing gust of wind.

Below me,

The world's a mismatch,

A patchwork quilt,

And I've no idea where I might land.


One set point..


The one thing I can't escape

The continual script

Set on a loop


Some days the future feels so infinite

Like a library littered with far too many books

Other days,

It's the same damn story

Over and over again



Tell me

Is this really a symphony

Or simply a series

Of impromptus

Tied together by my love

Of synchrony

This poem is about: 


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