If my life were a poem…

If my life were a poem, then could it all be put down to metaphor and rhyme?                                      

From my birth to the day so present the distance seems immense, though an older man

might laugh at this announcement and tell me I had not gotten out of the garden gate yet.   My youngest years are like a legend is to the Bard, full of wonder, tears, and mystery.                                                       

So separate I have become from that small smiling child that the loss is like an abyss that     I have no bridge to cross it with, nor can I glimpse more than a shadow of the other side.

If my life were like a song, what instrument should I choose to play it with?

From my first love for a teacher in the first grade of my education then a tour guide in an Asian land and a girl named Kim in a southern darker place- I loved them all as fervently as any boy could. But it was the green eyed wonder that has been my chorus ever since           My early teens were fantasies, lies and soft touches of innocence mixed with lust                   such memories now glide through my head when at the time they boiled in my blood           humming such sweet tunes in the South African wild and summer nights

If my life were to be written down in prosaic form would it be read like fiction?   

From my torment and angst that a teen only would know, the fight of rage, the newfound maturity that comes from lost childhood, the forgetful father and a time of selfish gratuitous justifications.

Alas my youth were the stuff of horror as the fury and madness of it ran me like a wild beast. Remains of failed passion thrown at the feet of girls and their absent cruelty, the lost dreams and unrealized promises broken in hopes of childlike romances, stolen kisses and their distant laughter in the falling of leaves, such sadness and despair now as it cries for me of the past in this winter air.

If my life had been like a play, would this player have his moment on the stage?                   To strut and rant in sound and fury before someone asked him to exit the scene.                   Would I get to have my moment of truth with the Sheri I thought I knew instead of silent anxiety without ever feeling the softness of her lips, the smell of her golden hair or the fantasies of the shadows and the loss of time or reality that keeps her hidden there in my memories.

If my life were a poem and I was the one to write it could I be true?                                         Would it be clear full of simile and English in form, would the grammar flow free or be forced into shape? Would you read it and think that the mistakes were mine to make?                                                                                 

 If my life were a poem and was not just put down to my superstitions of fate would I always be remembered as the child who always arrived a little too late?