"Back-peddling" By Ben Goode 2019 (c)

I see nothing. But it's not a true blank page. 
Every year, every moment. In a vintage, that I've aged.
Always recycled to rewrite! More awake and aware in the night.
I know what's there already. And it's inexperience mocks me.
In the piles of pages that I keep, and let them be.  
For I thought it was good then. But when is it really?
Blind perhaps in the harshness of reality.
My dexterity is indeed crippled. Someone had broken my pen. And left it before me.
For all to see, it bled. Like my own blood. 
And the wounds were too deep to stop. What had I written in the essence of life?
And what would I really leave behind?    
Mirages of my dreams haunt my mind. In my own paradise, that I can never find.
Too unfocused for any clarity. I see no eagerness, to lead me the way. 
Asking directions, with no answers anyway.
A walk in the desert, has a high price to pay. No relief, to make it easy to stay. 
A sun above provides my shadow of mockery, more distorted on every angle.
Asking for forgiveness. For what I had. And could only be with them
I want back what has already been lost. And can never be again.
I see a face displeased. Is it really me? Or is it my reflection who has judged me? And teased! 
Guilty I stand on a trial everyday. Talking back to myself in words, I really wanted to say. 
What could I have said? But instead put to bed. Would it have mattered? Quit while I'm ahead? 
Regrets fall like sand through my fingers. Back-peddling in deep thought that lingers.