the skinny

[saw]

sometimes I outgrow my poems
things I've written no longer have
that pizzazz, no longer speak like Plato's
little brother, don't have the resonance
of Stradivarius' perfect bodies,
the once perceived lightning in a jar
has gone rancid, the wonder isn't full,
the wonder is actually empty, missing...
wrapped in a pea-soup fog of limitation

the pieces seem lame to me , not that
I beat myself up or anything, I merely
accept that people change, I have come
to know at least six versions of myself,
not multiple personalities, just other
representations from all the decades
that no longer have any resemblance
to the current model, as if they weren't
in fact the very same person....this morphing

from the treks through the impossible briars
scarred by the thorns of the bloody wisdom
that comes the only way it can, the hard way....
and it is what it is.....the blood clots, the scabs
fall off, and the new skin grows back
to look just like the old skin, but we have
this little secret between us, this skin
is not the original...it is a replacement....
the outside world can't possibly know this

[leafsailors ghost]

I feel the same way often , I can relate to the poem .It is interesting that you can put the struggle and awareness into words .