Here I Go Again

A memory-

Lake miola was buzzing
with local screamers,
dreamers, and beer
drinkers;
I was a thinker.

Sitting back with
a pen and secrets.

Nobody knew I was
a writer and back then
I never labeled myself
as such, but I was.

I wrote of dimples
I'd never kiss,
bikini's that looked good
on girls, while boys drooled.

Tye dye shirt and frayed
denim shorts were my
thing, wishing to break
free from a tight leashed,
religious hell I called home.

I choked on prayer
because it looked
good, but I was slowly
dying.

I faded away as the years
flew by, doing the norm
while being me in poetry,
secretly writing of who I
really was,
finding my soul at each
ending stanza.

Poetry gave me strength
along with those beaten
down converse tennis shoes-

I ran from past shackles
of a lake I truly despised,
finding solace in eastern
winds of a New York blizzard.

Just when I think I've written
all there is to write, another
nagging thought comes to mind-

Here I go again.