Five years ago, I wrote a note
to my ever-struggling self,
and, just now, I found it
in a notebook on the shelf.

A lot has happened, since that time,
but somehow I’ve not reversed
the pathetic, whiny thinking
that upon myself I’ve cursed.

Surely, I’ve made some progress
and garnered more control,
but I still wake up each day
without a purpose or a goal.

There’s one major difference, though,
between these separate times,
because although I’ve always written
I haven’t always written rhymes!

That could have been the end of this
but I still clutch the pen,
because a change is called for
and, if not now, then when?