There once was a man who picked up a pen.

He wrote his sins down and prayed again and again.

He took a deep breath and began to say,

“I am a new person. I will change today.”

His hands were shaking, his mouth was dry.

He shook his head and started to cry.

The year was new and so were his sheets.

He had to decide which resolution to keep:


Be a better person, I mean, that’s what they say.

A better person is what but cliché?

To strip myself from what I’ve done,

Does it purely justify how far I’ve gone?


To forgive myself, I mean that’s what they say.

What is forgiveness when my sins are at bay?

How do I forget the way it felt,

To hear their screams as they knelt?


Turn my life around, I mean that’s what they say.

I think I can do this, I’ll start today.

Though I’m filled with remorse, I’m filled with regret,

Is this really enough? Or is this just a bet?

He looked around him and it pained him to see.

He wasn’t at home, not where he wanted to be.

The cell was dark, the cell was cold.

He closed his eyes and knew he was old.

It’s been ten years and he felt empty.

What’s a new year when he had nobody.

There once was a man who picked up a pen.

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