Lost Years/Choices

Originally posted 8/11/2012.

In my lost year of seventeen,
I had my own blood on my hands.
Drugs heaved their song inside me
and I did as I pleased,
for I planned to die young.

In my lost year of twenty-one,
my hands cupped more blood.
Dead sex occurred to spite the loss of live love.
Anything was possible;
I was going away.

Lost years between twenty-four
and forty-four? I picked off the scaled, dried blood
and washed the flakes away. No itemized
seductions, untaxed by hope,
I just lived as a matter of fact.

Fifty-two and lost again, or found again, or just awake.
I sing with longing to feel blood in my hands again,
to revel in rage, sex, and passion, to roll myself in great drugs.
I sense again that I can either create my world
or destroy it; am energized by every choice being perhaps the worst.