Down memory lane

As I was cleaning my apartment the other night, I found an old journal of mine.  My version of a journal has nothing to do with "Dear Diary, today so-an-so-touched my arm and it made me swoon..."  Rather, I LOVE creative writing!  So what I do is take things that are going on in my life and fictionalize them.  And then I change it to occur the way that I want it to.

My only problem is that I never finish what I start.  I get these great ideas and then write a couple of pages (several are 20 pages or longer), hit a snag (both in the fiction and in real life), and quit writing.  Then I go on to other stories or even poems.  I've even been known to get into "limerick wars" with friends (like Kinsey and Clayton).

As I looked through this old journal from somewhere in 2002 or 03, I ran into a small poem I wrote.  I thought I would post it here.  Please forgive the punctuation!  I would call it artistic license but I think it was just laziness.

My life goes on, a turning page;

I am a creation on this stage.

The world is watching, they stand and stare,

Why am I not moving?  Do I not care?

Are they not dying, lost in their sin?

Are they not trying to find answers within?

To themselves they look, turning the inside to out,

"How I feel is reality, it's what this life's all about.

You're way for you and my way for me.

No man can say what right and wrong be."

Inside I rage, "How can they think that?! 

I've been where they've been.  I've sat where they've sat!

I've felt that gnawing inside - 

That need for a guide!"

"Christ is my comforter, Father, and friend.

Through His good Word I know how it ends.

I am a sinner, you are one too,

We're descended from sinners, not come up from the goo.

Only one man can save us from death for this sin,

Only one man can knock, "Let Me come in.

Your burden is heavy.  My yoke is light.

Step into My hand and out of the night."

"He is the Savior, I plead and I cry."

Why do they run around, wanting to die?

I stand on this stage, afraid and alone,

Away from the place I once called my home.

I watch and I stare, quiet and free, 

While men fall in their prison, but I know the Key.