17 Sundays

by

J D Cully

My notebooks are neglected
My Millennium pens are dry
The Year Planner's in the bin
I'm so bitter I could cry
All the festive anecdotes
will never now be shared
If only I'd chosen last year
If only someone cared

Could've been a best seller
Could've had some fun
Could've been a legend
Could've been someone.

The memories of my travels
Still linger everywhere
The echoes of seventeen Sundays
Slowly die upon the air
And though I'll always love those books
They bring me down somehow
Every page a reminder
of what I never will have now

Could've been a beautiful year
Could've been a new life
Could've been the Millennium
Could've found a wife.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Untitled
by: Kari Rodgers
from: Hamlin, TX, US

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