My old notebooks and journals

Look too much like the ones I’m writing in now.

Though words are different,

I’m older now, of course,

And people and places have changed,

I am just as fucked up as I ever was.

Doing all the same old fucked up things.

Just in marginally different ways.

A reboot barely even trying to feel fresh.

A sequel that reminds us of all the worst bits of the first one.

The background of a sprinting cartoon.

I am nothing more than a pattern of behaviour and thought,

Replicating and repeating.

A childhood trauma fossilised in amber,

Wrapped and repackaged in new clothes,

Pretending to be all grown up.