Running Out Of Seasons

At two years old the only word I plainly knew was “no!”

my independence wore my parents down, wishing I would grow.

My impish days and willful ways tried their patience so….

It was certainly the dawn of life and with each new day I would show---

Fast-forwarding twelve years to cheers and fears and tears

to the ways of the world, I am wet behind the ears.

Learning the pressures and comfort of my peers

My self-esteem is faltering and in my brain that sears.

My world is crumbling, I am stumbling…I’m only in my teens

a chaotic time, a world sublime …try making sense of adult scenes.

I do not get it, I do not feel it, it is all beyond me – by all means

I only care to not be me – to not feel nor see nor hear – it is in my genes.

Twenty years do flee by – but where, and how, and when and why?

Reaching for love I try, yet fizzle …to try – to find the well-spring is dry.

I just do not get it, and re-live it over and over; forget it… I try.

Where is the me? Where is the love? Where is the need? alone, I cry.

Stopping and changing direction is the only thing left to do,

because I cannot fathom the person I have turned into

Nothing works, nothing is right, everything false, nothing true.

My being is as a Picasso painting…with everything askew.

The wrong turns to right, my life transforms to a welcome sight

The Grace of God bathes me in His Spirit in the Sunlight

it all seems that it is finally going to be eternally alright

no more night or plight, or fright, fight or flight.

But, a heavenly tryst with the ego’s world, another blow is felt

Wrestled to my back and restrained with a circumstantial belt

What a rotten hand of poker I am divinely dealt

Painful scars upon my being, my soul sustains the welt.

The decisions have presented themselves, and fate appears to seal

a duty to be true to myself…gives me a chance to heal

yes, the layers of the onion once more begin to peel

where am I going? all in God’s time – the mirror will reveal.

My mind is made up… there will be no more treasons

not by myself to myself with myself, for any reasons

To look forward, not back, will not remember

It is not May but September… I am running out of seasons.

Copyright © April 2003 Amy L. Allison