I am not who I once was
all my poetry seems to hit that resounding note
maybe, I can’t get past the fact
I have murdered my old self, and no one notices
or that I love watching bridges burn
the charred remains of the ‘glory days’
a ghost wandering these hallowed grounds,
why do I live in nostalgia?
why do I wish for the past?
when I can recall each plunge of my weapon
and burying this part of me in the back of my mind