Before words could go free,
there was a Stranger In A Strange Town...


I sit at the same laptop that I sat at on that night,
(Although two keyboards later) and I think that I should write,
A poem, a song, or summat™ , to mark the great event:
The beginning of the ending of existence so misspent .

Yet if I could write a note to me and send it to the past,
(Three years to the hour) I think that I would pass;
What could I say that possibly might could make any sense,
To me that eve without a clue of things that would come hence?

And so I sit here, writer's block to save me from myself,
(The former me from me of now) and leave upon the shelf,
Any words that might go back and change what time would bring,
For through it all, the good and bad, I wouldn't change a thing.