Title: When The Page Turns Poem by ashok jadhav

(The speaker stands alone at dawn. A single light. The weight of yesterday clings to their voice, but something steadier begins to rise.)
I have lived too long in the margins of my own life,
scribbling excuses where promises should have been.
I called my habits "fate, "
my failures "circumstance, "
my cruelty "honesty."
How convenient it was
to mistake repetition for destiny,
to say this is how I am
and close the book before the chapter could argue back.
I have worn yesterday like a uniform—
stained, familiar, unwashed.
Every morning I buttoned it again,
pretending the smell of old choices
was the scent of experience.
I spoke of change as if it were a rumor,
something that happened to braver people,
people born nearer to courage than I was.
But listen—
even the most battered book
is not finished until the last page agrees.
Tonight, I stood face to face with myself
and did not look away.
I saw the damage done by careless words,
the wreckage left by postponed apologies.
I saw how often I chose comfort over character,
how easily I blamed the dark
instead of lighting a lamp.
There comes a moment—
quiet, unannounced—
when denial grows tired of carrying the truth.
Mine collapsed at my feet.
And so I do the unthinkable.
I reach the corner of the page.
My fingers hesitate—
ink resists, paper whispers—
but still, I turn it.
I turn over a new leaf.
Not because the past forgives me—
it does not.
Not because the world forgets—
it rarely does.
But because staying the same
has finally cost more
than becoming better.
This new page is frightening.
It is blank enough to judge me.
No lines to hide behind.
No history to excuse me.
Every word I write now
will belong to me alone.
Here, effort replaces apology.
Here, listening becomes louder than defense.
Here, patience is not weakness
but discipline learned the hard way.
Here, I stop asking,
Why does this happen to me?
and begin asking,
What will I do differently today?
Do not mistake this turning
for a miracle.
I will still stumble.
Old habits will knock,
pretending they left something inside.
But now I know—
a knock does not require an invitation.
I am not erasing who I was.
I am editing.
I am correcting the draft
written in fear and haste.
Growth is not betrayal of the past—
it is the courage to improve upon it.
So let the record show this moment:
when I chose responsibility over resentment,
effort over excuse,
change over comfort.
Let the world doubt me if it must.
I have doubted myself enough
to last a lifetime.
Today, I begin again—
not loudly, not perfectly—
but deliberately.
Page by page.
Choice by choice.
I turn over a new leaf,
and for the first time,
I intend to read myself
with pride.