Turn Back

I could have been anything.
Anyone.

Heard this young,
still hear this so often — why
not do this, why not try
that, this is not a wise choice,
this will leave you poor;

look at you, look at you,
didn’t we tell you? Look at you,
failing, breaking under
a burden on a pile of cracked stone:
this was your chosen work
and look at you
breaking yourself
along with what little
you are leaving?

Behind me? Hordes.
Doubters and lovers with
mouths hanging open.
Over them, a cloud 
of their wet breath
laden with regret that they
went along with this,
with me.

They are right, I could have 
been anything, anyone. My knees
are purely shredded 
from how many times
I fell on jagged shells
of what I broke open
along my way to here — 
I could have been anything
including a stupid man
unable to tell
failure from triumph. 

You can see how I got here
from where you are, though;
maybe it’s enough
to be this: a billboard
by a roadside that reads

turn back, you could still be
anything, anyone
but this.