Sometimes when I lie awake at night
I count the mistakes I've made
They're infinite
Like a billion stars fading in and out of the night sky
I keep telling myself
Pretending that I can always start over
And be given a blank slate
But it never works that way
Just one piece of paper lies on the table
Scribbles ornately decorate its surface
In my trembling hand is pen
No eraser, no whiteout, no second chance
And somehow those lines must be given purpose
Meaning must flow from their sketched existence
In hopes to validate mine
