Just Another Chapter

Standard

Just another mark of ink
upon a blank white page.
Stained in an eerie permanence
that I might not erase my mistakes.
Soiled with the arrogance
of another author’s place,
pulling at the strings in my life
without regard or taste.

Fingers tapping softly
with the sure-footed step
of the padded wolf,
the cunning of a fox,
the silence of a cricket,
crying out for reprieve.
How can I call this
relief?

Grasping at memories that flee my mind,
reaching for friends I’ve long left behind.
Foreseeing a future too far out of sight,
replaying a past that I still cannot fight.

Just another chapter in my book,
just another lesson
that I never took.
Just another mention
of a name that meant the world
in between words
that described how he walked away.

Just another chapter in my life.

Just another memory taken by tide.
Just another person stopped in time
with a hope that dissolved with any fate
and a life that returned when I misconstrued the same,
only this time, the boy to blame
who managed to heal my heart again,
loved me with all of his.

Just another chapter in the book.

And yet, I stop my author dead in her frightened tracks.
I steal her pen and snap the thing in half.
I tell her that I’m never going back.
That I’ll never return to that Hell-hole of a past.
That her finishing words to that chapter were her last.

This is my novel now.

And I’m rewriting the ending.

In the end, the character falls in love.
In the end she meets the man who steals her heart.
In the end, she is happy, with all of her soul,
in the end, she is whole, like the start.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not the one writing out my life. As if, someone in some cosmic universe was writing my story for me. And, please do excuse my language, for a time, she was doing a damn shitty job. My author must have been sadistic and angry at me for some incomprehensible reason. And yet, here I am, happy. I’m sick of everything else dictating the way I live my life. These are my days, my chapters, to rewrite as I please. I can’t change the past. But I can decide the future, and I can decide to live the way I want to.

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About Mattie J.

My name is Mattie J. Hamilton, and I am seventeen years old. I live in a cute little house in the country in Southern Indiana, and have lived there my entire life. I self-published two books of poetry a few years ago, but I much prefer writing fiction of poetry, journalism, or any other sort of writing. I'm somewhat new to the blogging world, and I may come off as a bit of an ameteur, but hey, I am an ameteur. Proud of it. After all, I'm just a kid, and I have plenty of time to learn.

7 responses »

  1. Good thing we’re given the choice how to end our life’s story. Salute you that at your age you already published a book. God bless. Great poetry ahead.

  2. The past can be a hard thing to let go of. I’ve been needing to more of it lately. You’re right though. We write our own endings. As authors we our the gods of the world we write and we have the ability to change anything. However, there is that feeling that someone else is writing for you, like you said. If that happens when I’m writing I usually think that my story’s gaining a mind of its own. Still, there are some things that can’t fully be explained. Any ways, your poem presents an interesting idea. I’ve never read another one like it before. I think you did good at reflecting your deepest feelings.

    • Thank you. I often think that when my stories take a life of their own, they are the best of my work. Every once in awhile, I have a writing spell that I cannot remember writing and reading back through that work is when I decide that the story has begun writing itself. I love moments like that…

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